Other Duties Just as Sacred
by Katta
Summary: What would make a woman decide to leave her husband and child to go off with a pirate? And how would her life turn out once she had?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This story is, at the moment, compliant both with the backstory I wrote for Killian in "One Foot in Sea", and with canon, even though those two things are no longer compliant with each other. Since this story is a multichaptered WiP, it's bound to be jossed eventually, and I hope you don't mind when that happens._

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><p>A young man was sitting on the steps outside the tavern, with his legs stretched out well into the street. The only way for Milah to pass him with her pails of water would be to walk in the muddy tracks where carriages were passing by, with the risk of being hit by one at any moment. As she stopped and glared at him, he turned to look at her, an amused glint under raised, dark eyebrows.<p>

There was a jewel in his ear and more adorning his hands, but his clothes were leather and his boots muddy: a warrior's attire. His skin, though naturally pale, had a tan that showed the hint of a scar on his cheek. Rich and dangerous – not a good combination to cross. But her back was too tired and her mood to sour for her to care.

"Get your legs out of the way," she snapped.

The amusement turned into an outright smirk, and he replied, "You could ask nicely, you know," in a well-educated voice that named him a gentleman in breeding, if not in action.

The thought of begging this conceited pig for anything angered her even further.

"_You_ could try moving your precious arse before I kick your face in."

"I'd love to see you try," he laughed.

That laughter took the very last of her patience, and she put her pails down, aiming a kick at his handsome face, the consequences be damned.

Both his hands shot up to catch her foot, and he pushed her heel upwards and backwards, sending her flying to the ground. The pails knocked over and spilled water out into the muddy street, and Milah landed hard on her elbows, a jolt of pain shooting up through her body.

"Next time you mean to kick somebody," he offered amiably, "don't tell them in advance."

She sat up, skirt squelching from the spilled water. "Now look what you did!"

"What I did?" He crouched down before her and held out a hand. "Protecting myself against assault, you mean?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose it's all a big joke to you." She gathered her dripping skirt together and stood up, ignoring his offer of help.

"You're actually angry." His eyebrows first rose, then lowered in sympathy, even more aggravating to her bruised pride.

"Of course I'm angry, you oaf, what did you expect?" The worst part was that despite it all, that infuriating grin of his was warming her up. He was just a _boy_, for goodness' sake. It was humiliating for a woman of her years to go weak-kneed over some self-satisfied sapling, and she cursed under her breath to force away the feeling.

His smile died away, and he watched her in silence briefly before sticking his fingers in his mouth for a sharp whistle.

In response, a tall, rough-looking man stepped out of the tavern. Milah fell quiet mid-invective, taking in the shaved head, eyepatch, knobbly features and leathery skin.

The first man turned to the ruffian and said, "The lady had a mishap and spilled her water. Fetch her some more and see her safely home."

"Aye, Captain."

Captain? Neither one of them was an army man, that much was clear, which left the sea, and Milah realized with a simultaneous lurch to the stomach and flutter to the heart that she knew exactly what they were. The absurdity of having a pirate the size of an oak tree carrying her water pails was just too much to take in, and she turned to the captain.

"Do you always have lackeys to do your chores?" she asked.

"Of course," he said with an angelic expression. "It leaves me free for more _pleasurable_ pastimes."

The suggestion inherent in that remark was so transparent that she couldn't help a snort of laughter – one that she hurried to swallow when she saw the triumph on his face.

"All right, then," she told the ruffian, "the well is this way, and home is over there."

He picked up the pails and started walking, without a word, and she followed, finding it easier to focus her gaze on him than on the captain. Still, she couldn't resist a final glance back, catching sight of that damned amused expression, which made her flinch and turn back.

Somehow, the massive presence looming next to her was less disconcerting, and she quite enjoyed the startled look on people's faces. Quite a change from their usual mien.

"So you're a pirate?" she asked as he filled the pails with water, having to almost double down over the well.

"Yuh."

"Is it... exciting?" She sounded like a wistful little girl, but if he found it strange, he didn't show it.

"Sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

"Sometimes there's scrubbing decks," he said and started walking again with the full pails. "Or running errands for some pretty lady the captain wants to impress."

His face was still so grim and stony that it took her a beat to realize that he was teasing her, and she smiled, both in response to the attempted humour and for the notion of herself as a lady to be impressed.

"Sorry about that," she said. "And thank you, for your chivalry. Your captain could learn a thing or two from you. You could tell him that, if you want."

"Nah. I like my head where it is."

She chortled at that, and by the time she came home, she was in quite a good mood. It instantly died away, though, when they met with her husband in the yard, and he shrank visibly at the sight of her huge companion. It was ungenerous of her, she knew – after all, the pirate _was_ quite frightening – but it brought back the reality of her own life, in this little cottage, shunned by the neighbours and forced into proximity with this mouse of a man.

"Milah?"Rumpelstiltskin asked in a quivering voice. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," she snapped at him. "I got a bit of help back, that's all. No need to fear, little mouse."

Thanking the pirate, she got her pails back and was mortified to see upon his face the same disdain that half the town showed them, though with an additional tinge of amusement. She stormed into the house and got a rag dipped into one of the pails, scrubbing at the floor as if her life depended on it.

It wasn't that she expected her husband to be as large and scary as _that_ bloke; the notion was clearly ridiculous. And she wasn't looking for him to be cocksure and flirtatious like the blue-eyed bastard back in town, not really, but...

Rumpelstiltskin came into the cottage and took care to avoid the wet patches on the floor. To avoid _her_, in the bargain, giving her a shy sideways glance as he passed by.

That was the rub, wasn't it? Running from ogres was bad enough, but what could you do about a man who was afraid of his own wife?

The joke was on her, she supposed. When he first proposed, she had been so relieved to have a man who had neither the power nor inclination to hurt her. It never occurred to her to think that she would end up the ogre in her own marriage.

His expression now was so mournful, so pleading, that she had to turn her back even to cope with it. She was here, wasn't she? She was doing her chores, keeping her mouth shut, and if he expected her to do it with a smile on her face, he ought to think again.

Smaller feet tiptoed around the wet patch, and she looked up at Baelfire coming in from playing by the river. He'd left his muddy shoes by the door and was careful not to step where she was cleaning, but that was the only thing he was careful of. At least _he_ wasn't afraid of her, not yet anyway, but his eyes went from her face to his father's, gauging their temper, and Rumpelstiltskin hurried over to sit down beside him and give him a hug.

She bit her lip, reminding herself that if her child turned against her, it was her own fault, and she forced herself to smile.

"All right," she said with as much cheer as she could muster. "I'll just get this done, and then I'll start on supper. We still have some of that sausage; it'll make a nice addition to the soup."

"Thank you," Rumpelstiltskin said quietly, hand still in Bae's hair.

There were times she suspected that he did it on purpose, than in absence of strength he had turned his own weakness into a weapon. In saner moments, she knew that it was most likely her own frustration warping his innocent reactions into acts of malicious forethought. Either way, it amounted to the same thing. She would get tired and lash out, he'd get hurt, so would Bae, and in the end she'd relent and do what she was supposed to do in the first place, feeling horribly guilty about her own behaviour. If only she could reconcile herself to her situation and stop making things worse for them all.

And if she could respect him. That was the worst of it, really, not the lack of love. It hadn't been so bad before the war. She had been something close to happy, back then, the young newlywed sharing marital gossip with her sister Alma in the bakery shop. Recalling those days, she could just about remember them, how people had still smiled at her and her husband in the street. They'd been a couple like any other, before he came back hobbled by his own blow, and her friends – widows all – would no longer meet her gaze. Sure, from time to time back then she'd had the occasional twinge in her heart, remembering what had driven her to her husband, and she'd had to lie still and quiet in the nights, not to push him out of the bed, but altogether, it had been easier to manage. Even with those twinges, she hadn't been so mean, so vicious and petty, that she could no longer recognize herself.

She had been a good person once, hadn't she? Or was it just self-flattery, the assumption of goodness based on nothing more than the lack of opportunity to be anything else? Maybe this shrew was her all along, deep inside. Gods knew she didn't have the strength to be different, not anymore.

She finished the cleaning and moved on to supper preparations, careful to keep something resembling a smile upon her face, feeling it get more cramped with every minute.

"Mama?"

Baelfire must have gone outside without her noticing, because now, with a shy smile, he offered her a freshly picked coltsfoot.

"I got you this," he said. "It's the first one I've seen this year."

She put the bowl and spoon down and gently took the flower from his hand, softening at the little yellow sun. "It's the first one I've seen too," she said. "Well. It seems spring is coming after all."

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them away, giving her son a quick smile. "Thank you, Bae. Now, run off and play for a while, and I'll have supper ready soon."

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><p>The next day was a Day of Ash, and she went to the temple, alone. Rumpelstiltskin had the sense to stay away, and she wouldn't subject Bae to more scorn than he already faced. She moved through the crowd, ignoring the glances and comments as best she could, but as she approached the altar, she felt the sharp push of an elbow at the small of her back and fell over, scattering her sticks of incense on the floor. People hurried past, feet so close that she had to spread out her hands to prevent her sticks from breaking – a few bruises were easier to take than a ruined offering, on a day like this.<p>

As she gathered the incense and stood up, her eyes burned, but she told herself that she had as much right as the rest of them to be there. So what if her husband wasn't among the fallen? She had others to mourn, and she wouldn't let anyone tell her that she wasn't entitled.

Trying her best to hold her head high, she rattled off her quiet prayers in stubborn defiance, for her cousins, and Alma's husband, and Gerald. Towards the end of them, she added a plea most unsuitable for a Day of Ash, with a fervency that made her ashamed: "Please, please, make it stop!"

What a silly, inappropriate prayer! Selfish, at a time when she should have thought of others, and woefully unspecific. The gods might decide to teach her a lesson by twisting her words in whichever way they pleased. She blushed at her own folly and hurried off. The other templegoers seemed to think nothing of her apparent shame – why would they? They expected it.

On her way back, someone quite deliberately stepped into her path, and – in a most unexpected move – bowed to her. She was surprised to find that it was the pirate captain. Yet in some strange way, she had expected him.

"Why, if it isn't my favourite sharp-tongued shrew," he said with a grin.

"Why, if it isn't my least favourite prancing peacock," she snapped, wondering why her heart felt so much lighter.

"Pea cock?" he repeated, the pause evident between the two words. "I assure you, nothing of the kind!"

She had to bite her lip, not so much for the bad innuendo as for the fact that she'd practically fed it to him. "You think you're so funny."

"So do you," he said, his grin widening at her reaction, and she knew she had to do something to stop him being so pleased with himself.

A carriage came towards them, and she realized how very easy it would be to get her own back, and in the most fitting way possible, too. Using tricks of days long gone by, she tilted herself to accentuate her shapes through the fabric of her dress, though she made sure to keep her voice stern as she moved further into the road and addressed him: "That's a fine way to talk on a Day of Ash. And to a married woman, no less! Have you no shame?"

Just as she had anticipated, he moved along with her, to keep up with the view. "Shame is an emotion I have found to be of very little..."

The muddy spray from the carriage's wheels drenched his clothes and cut him short. His jaw dropped, and he shook himself like a dog, silent for the first time since she met him.

Even with her lower lip firmly between her teeth, she couldn't stop herself from smiling.

"You... you did that on purpose!" he said.

"I cannot make carriages appear at will," she said, but unable to keep a straight face, she admitted, "A little bit, yes."

He stared at her, dripping wet, elbows extended slightly from the body to prevent the water from soaking through, and very slowly, he exhaled through his teeth.

His expression made her take a step back, as she remembered that he was a pirate, after all. Young, pretty and sweet-talking, maybe, but a pirate nonetheless, and vivid memories came back to her of stories told in voices that lowered to a whisper at the most horrific details. If he decided to attack her, could she put up a fight? Could she call for help – and if she did, would anyone come?

Before she had time to decide on a plan of defence, his posture relaxed and he burst into laughter.

"Bloody hell, woman," he said. "If you want me out of my clothes, all you have to do is ask."

The thought of him out of his clothes came to her mind unbidden, and she blinked hard to force it away. "You should be so lucky." But she still could not keep her smile back.

"A drink, then?" His wide grin and the twinkle in his eyes were back in full force. "Now that we've both made the other wet and dirty."

The incessant onslaught of his remarks was so over the top that she couldn't even take them seriously, but the joy he took in saying them brought joy to her own heart as well. The strength of it took her breath and made her cheeks heat, unlike anything she'd felt since her time with Gerald.

That thought stopped her short, and she snapped, "It is a Day of Ash!"

"Is it?" he asked, still smiling. "And what is that?"

"It's for honouring our fallen."

"Ah." To his credit, he let his smile die off, though one couldn't say that he looked chagrined. "A worthy cause. And what of tomorrow? Is that too a Day of Ash?"

"No. I..." For a moment, she couldn't think of a single reason not to agree to his suggestion, which was ridiculous, since there were so many. "I can't just go off and have a drink with you!"

"Why not?"

"I don't even know your name!"

"True, that. How rude of me." He gave a bow, arms spread wide, the effect somewhat ruined by the water still dripping from his sleeves and hair. "Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger, at your service, milady. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Milah. My name is Milah."

"Milah." He tasted the word, making it seem softer and gentler than she'd ever felt. "A beautiful name. I'm honoured to meet you, Milah."

If anything proved what a fish out of water he was, it was that phrase. No one was _honoured_ to meet her. No one was even pleased to meet her, except maybe Bae on a good day.

What was she doing here? Having some pirate fill her head with nonsense, when she should be going home to her child, to her duties.

"If you're quite done," she snapped, and moved to go past him.

"Hey, now!" He shifted to catch up with her, without going so far as to grab her or block her way. "What of my invitation? I did give you my name."

"I can't. I have a child."

He bit his lip and nodded solemnly. "How old?"

"Six... almost seven."

"Old enough to spend an hour or two playing with his friends. He has friends, doesn't he?"

Milah wavered, because it was true. Bae wasn't like her and Rumpel, he made connections easily. There was that girl Morraine at the neighbours', her parents let him come over sometimes and play, even though they didn't stoop low enough to extend the invitation to his parents.

"Yes, but..."

"But?" Those damned blue eyes. What business did a pirate have looking so earnest?

"I have to work."

"You are in someone's employ, then? What are your hours of leisure?"

"No. No, I'm not."

There was a moment of silence, as Captain Jones offered no more counters to her excuses. Half of her wanted him to. No – more than half, much more.

"If you don't wish to go, you can just say so," he said softly. "I have no desire to coerce you."

She swallowed the tightness in her throat, finding it so hard to fight against this attention, this _kindness_. With a sharp bite of her cheek, she reminded herself that it was probably just blandishment intended to make her raise her skirts.

The thought, rather than stopping her cold, brought such indecent images to her mind that she quickly took two steps back.

"I'm a married woman!"

"Yes, you are." There was something akin to pity in his expression as he said, "Took you a while to remember that, didn't it?"

Shame burned her face and behind her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "You seem like a lovely person."

His mouth tilted up ever so slightly. "My crew and I are staying right there," he said, pointing towards the inn, "for the duration of the week. In case you change your mind."

She nodded and hurried off, trying to force herself back into that dull state of mind where nothing mattered and she could just carry on with her chores like an ox on the field.

Halfway down the street, though, she stopped and turned. Although it was a silly thing to say – he couldn't possibly understand why – she called back to him: "Thank you!"

A streak of mischief appeared on his face, but it died away again, and he simply replied, "You're welcome."

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><p>That night, she took her husband to bed for the first time in months, and rode him with such fervour that she shocked them both. Her teeth were tightly clenched to prevent any name from slipping out, but her mind was filled with sparkling blue eyes and a bearded smile.<p>

Once the act itself was finished, she sank back onto the mattress, and in response to Rumpelstiltskin's cautious, hopeful kisses she embraced him, caressing his skin and crying in silent apology over the cuckolding she'd subjected him to in her mind.

Sleeping was fretful, with banal but frightening dreams of running from an unseen threat, her feet getting stuck in quagmire, every step dragging her further into the ground. She woke with a start and pinched herself to stay awake, stepping out of bed at the first sign of daylight.

The household chores got done with a new urgency, and she scrubbed away at the dishes like her life depended on it. At times, she found herself speeding things up to a level that left a sloppy result, and in punishment she forced herself to do it over with twice the care.

Rumpelstiltskin tried talking to her, and she answered as best she could, tried to smile, but his presence served as a constant reminder of the day before, and she soon directed her attention back to the work which occupied her body and kept her from thinking.

As the day progressed, he stopped trying to engage her in conversation and went off to sell cloth and thread to the seamstresses. Bae remained for a while, helping her with the bits he could, but eventually asked:

"Can I go off to play, mama?"

She looked up, getting a sudden urge to grab him and hold him close. Her chores were almost finished for the time being, perhaps she could go out and play with her son before she sat down at the spinning wheel. She had the time.

"Yes," she heard herself say. "Why don't you? In fact..."

He paused at the doorway, giving her a questioning look.

"I have some errands to run," she said. "Perhaps you could stay over at Morraine's for a few hours?"

"Sure," he said with a smile.

She smiled back. "You're such a good boy, Bae. Have fun, now."

After he left, she remained for a little while, picking at things without getting anything done. Then, slowly, she took off her apron and hung it over a chair before going out the door.

Having left the house behind, she picked up the pace, walking towards the town square with a brisk stride she hadn't used in years. Only when she reached the inn did she falter again, and remained standing outside, doubts raised in her mind.

What was she _doing_ here? It wasn't even noon anymore, not properly, and despite her efforts there was still plenty to be done at home. The square was full of people hurrying along their way, and though few of them spared her more than a single disdaining glance, she balked at the thought of going into the inn, in the middle of broad daylight, to meet a strange man.

There was some shade in the corner, and she sat down, pretending to shake out a pebble in her shoe. This would normally take very little time, but she remained seated for nearly a quarter of an hour, before finding the resolve to just stand up and enter the inn.

Even craning her neck, she couldn't spot Captain Jones anywhere, and was about ready to leave again when a deep voice said, "Hello there."

She spun around, and drew a shaky breath seeing the ruffian pirate from her first meeting with the Captain. His presence made her feel a little better. "Oh. It's you."

Though he didn't smile, there was a definite hint of amusement in his expression. Relief was probably not among the main sensations people usually had upon seeing him.

"Yuh. You looking for the Captain?"

"Well," she started, "I'm not... that is to say... if it isn't too much..."

"He's in the back. Think he's been expecting you."

She followed him past all the diners to a large table in the back, where Captain Jones was sitting at the high end, his appeareance hidden from the door by man even taller than the one who accompanied her, though darker-skinned and not quite as wide over the shoulders.

"There you are!" Jones said with a wide grin upon seeing her. "You took your time, didn't you? I was starting to think you weren't coming. Fellows, this is Milah. Milah, you've got here Bilal, Cooper, Cecco, Soeng..." He rattled off a few more names and ended with, "And you've already met Mason."

She stuck to that bit of information. "Mason," she repeated, smiling at her old aquaintance. "Hello."

"Have a seat!" Jones said, scooting in on the bench to leave room for her. As she sat down, he gave her a nudge of his shoulder and a wink. "I knew you couldn't stay away."

She stood up abruptly, ready to leave, and he caught her hand.

"No, no," he said. "That was a joke. I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Sit down. Please." He gave her a rueful look as she sat back down. "So skittish. I hope it's not the crew giving you a fright?"

"No, of course not," she said.

"Then it's me?" he asked with a wide grin. "Not so strange. I am a very impressive individual who can bring grown men a-quiver with fear."

The crew roared with laughter, and Milah smiled a little. "So's a rat."

"That's better," he said softly. "The cat hasn't got your waspish tongue after all. What will you have?"

"Thanks, but I've eaten."

"Ah, but you haven't eaten the house lamb. It's unmissable. Let's have some more lamb! Don't worry, it's on me. Or on Mason, if you'd rather."

"Much obliged," Mason said drily, and she offered him a smile.

"Are you flirting with my crewman?" Jones asked. "That won't do, it's captain's privilege."

"But he's such a gentleman," Milah said, being drawn in by the light mood. "Quite unlike you."

"I am a perfect gentleman," Jones declared. "Much more cultivated and refined than this band of scurvy dogs."

The crew jeered.

"If that is how you speak of your men, I'm surprised that they haven't committed mutiny long ago."

Jones waved that away. "Oh, they wouldn't dare."

"I would." Milah sat back and crossed her arms. "I would drop you off in... Atlantis."

He chuckled, and a couple of the others did too. "Not a bad place to be, Atlantis."

"Great food," said the round-faced man next to her. She thought his name was Mullins.

"Beautiful architechture," said Bilal, the tall man on the right of Jones, with a deep bass voice.

"And the science," Jones filled in. "Don't forget the science. Though Lemuria has better climate."

"You've been?" she asked, unable to keep the longing out of her voice. She had heard so much about Atlantis, even tried to draw it a couple of times, based on description and the occasional illustration. Lemuria she knew very little of, except that it was far away to the south-east and had magnificent animals unknown to these parts.

"Of course. We're well-traveled." He raised his cup. "Everywhere the Navy of Avalon goes, we go to... stir up trouble."

"Will you tell me about it?" she asked, ignoring another round of laughter.

"Why, do you want to go to Atlantis?" he asked.

The tone and his expression made it clear that it was a joke, but her response wasn't:

"More than anything." In the silence that followed, she continued, "If I only could, I'd go to all of those places. Atlantis, Lemuria, Avalon..." She searched her memory for more foreign places. "Nysa, Nmkwami, Camelot, Hyperborea, Thule, Ruritania..."

"Don't forget Tir na nÓg," Jones said softly.

"Ruritania's not worth going to," a man further down the table scoffed. He had long, dark brown hair, dimples deep enough to plant seeds in, and a slight accent that Milah couldn't place. "It's much like the Enchanted Forest, only with worse cooks and louder music."

"And Thule will freeze your arse off," Bilal said.

"I don't care," she said. "I'd want to see them all. Oh, if only I were a man!"

"Don't have to be a man," said a short, stocky crewman further down the table. "Me mum's not."

"Well, she's not like your mum, is she?" Mason snapped. "She's a respectable woman, ain't she?"

"Respectable," Milah scoffed, and was overtaken by the hopelessness of it all, how she could never achieve that respect Mason unthinkingly assumed of her, yet remained too close to it to ever be free. Fighting the sensation, she grabbed Jones's arm, digging her fingers into his jacket. "Tell me about Atlantis."

He swallowed the piece of bread that he'd just put in his mouth and replied, "As you wish. What do you want to know?"

"Everything," she said. "Absolutely everything."


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Milah found it a little bit easier to tell Bae to go play while she ran some errands. Once he was out the door, she gathered up her drawings to show to Captain Jones. His stories had given her so much more material, and she could see already that her old drawings were ridiculously wrong. Most likely, he would laugh at them, but she didn't even care. As long as she got all she had in her head out on paper, she could face any amount of ridicule.

Before she could leave, however, Rumpelstiltskin returned from town, and her defences rose in an instant. No matter what, she wouldn't let him stop her, not when she finally had something to look forward to.

"Where are you going?" he asked. "Where's Bae?"

"Bae's fine, he's with Morraine," she said, raising her chin. "I'm off to see some friends."

"Friends?"

The disbelief in his voice made her furious. "Yes, friends. I'm allowed _friends_, aren't I? If somebody deigns to talk to me, that's _permitted_, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course," he said meekly.

The guilt she'd momentarily forgotten came crashing back, and she stared at him in silence for a moment before shaking her head. "Don't. Just don't."

She fought the shame all the way into town, tears burning behind her eyelids, but it dissipated when she stepped into the inn and was greeted with smiles and cheers from the crew. People she hadn't even met two days ago acted pleased to see her – genuinely, no strings attached pleased. It made her feel like a schoolgirl again, all problems forgotten for an hour of good food and cheerful conversation.

She wasn't the only one caught up in the good mood. Young men were so rare these days that some of the town's less discerning young women were gathering around the fairer members of the crew – of which the captain was most definitely one. No better than they should be, her mother would have said, and yet here Milah was, twice the age of some of those girls and heart pounding at the sight of him.

Jones caught sight of Milah and waved her over, gently nudging a girl further down the table who attempted to sit down next to him. The girl ended up next to the handsome crewman called Cecco instead, and didn't seem to mind the change in scenery.

"Hello, love," Jones said. "I was wondering if you'd honour us with your presence again. Do you want the lamb, or something else today?"

"I think I'd like some roasted salmon, please," she said, sitting down.

"Ah. Well, I'm a bit tired of fish myself, but whatever milady desires, you shall have. What's that you're holding? Something for us?"

"It's just some sketches," she said, handing them over. "I thought you could give me some critique, help me picture it more accurately."

The pirates sitting closest threw some curious glances towards the papers, and one of the girls craned her neck.

"I didn't mean..." Milah said, and seeing her face, Jones quickly gathered up the drawings and rose from his seat.

"This is between the artist and myself," he said. "If you'll pardon us."

He brought Milah along to a smaller table, and waved for their food to be carried over. Once they were alone, he leafed through the drawings, and his eyebrow shot up.

"I know they're not accurate," she said. "I was hoping you could help me fix them."

"They're good, though," he said. "Really good."

The surprise in his voice was a little too evident to be pleasant, and when he gave a snort of laughter at one of the pictures, she snatched them from his hands.

"All right, if you won't be of any help..."

"My apologies," he said, holding onto the edge of the bottom ones so they fell back on the table before him. "The thing is, as skillful as these are, it's clear you haven't been to any of these places."

"Of course not," she said, in a huff. "That's what I said!"

"As much as I'd love to help you, I'm not certain my abilities as a raconteur are up to the task. Take this." He held up one of the pictures left. "Is it meant to be the Temple of Wisdom?"

"Yes," she said.

"That's what I thought. Not only haven't you seen it, you haven't seen anything from that school of architechture. Have you?"

"No," she admitted.

He shook his head slowly. "I don't think I can describe it. Not well enough."

Her immediate reaction was disappointment, but it was followed pretty quickly by an impatient anger. "Well, you're going to _try_. Because it's not like I'm ever going to see it, and I've got to have _something_."

For a moment, he watched her in silence, and then he nodded. "All right. I'll do my best."

By the time she had finished the sketch she made on the back of her previous one, their food was growing cold and there were smudges of coal all across the table.

"Not entirely wrong," Jones deemed, holding up the picture towards the light. "Well done, love."

She took the drawing back and watched the domes and towers, getting an impression of the whole thing, now, rather than the details he kept demanding that she changed. "It's beautiful."

"It's even better on the inside – but that, I most certainly cannot do justice in words."

"This will do. Thank you." She put her hand over his and squeezed it in gratitude.

One of the maids was passed by, on her way to clear the next table over, and the disdain on her face was punctuated by a loud scoff. Milah's hand twitched in a reflex to remove it, but then she thought the better of it. Why should she correct her behaviour to meet an approval quite out of her reach in any case?

Jones, however, withdrew his hand with some hesitation. "Perhaps we should return to the others. I wouldn't want to cause any damage to your reputation."

She laughed, though she felt more like crying. His concern was absurd on so many levels, not least how much belated it after his thorough pursuit of her in the previous days. Then there was the fact that several of his crewmembers were engaged in flirtatious conversation with young women around the inn. Most disheartening of the absurdities was the notion that she would have any reputation to destroy, and that it should be guarded by a _pirate_ of all people.

"It literally cannot get any worse," she said.

There was a twitch of his eyebrow that suggested he was trying not to raise it, against his own instinct, and she realized too late what he had made of her words. Feeling a blush creeping up across her face, she decided that bluntness was the quickest way to handle the misunderstanding.

"I'm not a loose woman." Even speaking the words, it struck her how ridiculous they were, trying to claim any sort of virtue when she had deserted her duties at home to dine with a strange man.

"I wasn't..." he started, but halted and asked instead, "What is it, then?"

She hesitated, ashamed of having to tell the truth and change the carefree report that they had. "I'm... my husband was drafted for the ogre war. You have heard of the ogre war?"

"We do get news all the way out to sea, yes," he said, somber at the mention. "Yet he survived?"

"He never fought," she said bitterly. "He broke his own leg and was sent home."

"On purpose?"

She nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "And all for me and our son, or so he says."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. When she had first heard the rumours of Rumpelstiltskin's deed, she had refused to believe them. Their persistance had given her doubt, and when Rumpelstiltskin came back and admitted the truth without hesitation, she had been both sad and furious. But not until he spoke those words, claimed to have done it for her, did he finally kill her love, making her realise that any common ground she had believed them to have was all illusory. Rumpelstiltskin was, to all intents and purposes, more of a stranger to her than Jones was now, after three days' aquaintance. Likewise, she was a stranger to him – had to be, for him to believe even for a minute that she'd want him to abandon his comrades in battle for his personal survival.

"That's a wretched excuse indeed," Jones said with some heat. "But his choices are not yours. Why should you suffer for it?"

Even though she'd asked the same question to herself many times, guilt still rose up in her heart, along with Alma's face, hardened in grief.

"Everyone else died," she said. "I have a townful of widows and orphans who loathe me, because my coward of a husband came back to me, and no-one else's did."

"And they blamed you for that?"

She shrugged. "I suppose it's easier."

His eyes rested on her face with none of their former mockery. The sympathy presented to her almost made her tell him about Alma, about what this war and her husband's decision had made of her family, but she held her tongue. There were limits to how much she was willing to lay herself bare for this whelp.

"A heavy burden to bring home to a young wife," he said.

"Hence my refusal to let anything stop the most fun I've had all... year," she said, a wide if brittle smile across her face.

"Fun, eh?" he echoed. "Very well, fun it is. Let's get back to the crew and have some more food, some wine, songs and games. You like songs and games, don't you?"

He stood up and offered her a hand, waving for one of the junior crewmembers to bring back their food to the main table.

"I suppose I do," she said, amused at this sign of his youth, and how it didn't seem to occur to him that amusements suitable for young sailors on leave were not habitual for spinners' wives closer to forty than thirty. Still, there was no harm in it, and she found herself laughing as she was dragged to the table.

"Listen up, lads!" Jones told the men. "The lady requires entertainment. It is our duty to provide it to her, to the best of our abilities. And remember, hands off!"

The request was ridiculous, but given and taken in good cheer, and as Milah sat down among the others and was given a cup and some dice among these rough, weather-beaten men, she finally allowed herself to relax.

* * *

><p>Despite the wine on her breath and late hour of her arrival, Rumpelstiltskin asked no questions that night, perhaps because she was still humming one of the silly songs Jones and his men had taught her. Their evening was peaceful and her sleep as well, leading to a fine mood in the morning, though she did her best to rein it in as she bid her husband farewell.<p>

Bae was unusually subdued all morning, until she was finishing up her chores, when he pulled up a chair and sat down, his grave gazed fixed upon her.

"What is it, darling?" she asked, trying to keep her face somber to match his mood.

"Morraine's going to see her aunt tonight," he said. "They're leaving in the afternoon. Will you be gone long?"

She sat down opposite him, her stomach lurching in disappointment. "No. No, of course not. I'll... I'll just pop out for a little bit and come right back to you, all right, love?"

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded, though his eyes were still downcast and his lips tightened. Milah gave him an extra hug as she sent him on his way before going into town, tears rising up in her eyes.

Jones was sitting outside the inn, having some sort of discussion about charts with a crewman she hadn't seen the night before, a short, sharp-nosed man with salt and pepper hair, who gave her a quizzical look when she stopped to greet them.

"Welcome!" Jones said, and then, "Is something wrong?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and he ushered her upstairs, to a room that, while not very spacious, she knew to be one of the inn's finest. It seemed rather extravagant of him to have a room at all, and even more so a room like this, considering that there must be a captain's cabin on his ship. Perhaps he thought the change of scenery worth any price, and judging by the number of clothes and other items strewn about the place, it was more of a headquarters than a personal space.

"What is it, then, love?" he asked, giving her a slightly concerned gaze out of those damned blue eyes of his.

"I can't stay," she said with a sigh. "I only came to say that I can't. My boy's expecting me back home." There was some measure of satisfaction, no matter how small, in seeing her own disappointment mirrored in his expression. "I'll try to make it longer tomorrow..."

"We're leaving tomorrow."

She stopped short, trying to make sense of that impossible thought. "What?"

"First thing in the morning," he said, with a shrug that belied his serious face. "We're well-stocked and ready to go. This was only ever meant to be a week."

"Where are you going?" she asked, as if it mattered, as if _not here_ wasn't enough.

"Cockaigne first, then further south."

"But..." She couldn't ask him not to go. What would a pirate captain do in a town like this, not to mention his crew? It was a ridiculous notion, and they aquaintance was nowhere near close enough for her to make that sort of request. "When will you be back?"

He shrugged, with a helplessly apologetic expression.

"Won't you be back?" Her voice came perilously close to cracking.

"I suppose I will, some day. This isn't a vital harbour, though, most likely it will be a while before..." He stopped, biting his lip. "I could make myself an errand here, but it still might not be for months. I'm sorry. I can't make any promises."

"I understand," she said, wishing that she didn't, that she could in any way blame him, but the logic was obvious. He was tied to his life just as securely as she was to hers, more, even... "Take me with you."

"What?"

"Take me with you," she repeated, and though she hadn't even thought before saying it the first time, the repetition convinced her that it was the only solution that made any sense, because going back to how things had been was unbearable.

He withdrew, brows lowered. "You're not serious."

"Of course I am. I could work, be a pirate, or... clean the ship, I don't know, but I wouldn't be a burden. I promise."

"And what of your son?" he challenged. "The one you can't leave alone for a few hours. What would you do with him?"

She'd forgotten Bae. Sweet, darling Bae, who had made her misery bearable, and who she never quite had managed to keep safe and happy in return.

"I... can't you take him too?"

"Six, was he?" Jones asked, his customary sly glint replaced by solid steel. "Piracy is not a children's game. Were he twice the age, I'd consider it, but I will not rip a mere child from his home. Nor should you."

He spoke sense, she knew it, no matter how much her heart rebelled. But the alternative, to leave Bae behind and go off on her own, what kind of person would she be if she did that?

"So that's it, then," she said flatly. "Another girl at another shore."

His face softened, and he reached out to touch her cheek. "Not like you."

"Much younger, for one thing."

And much better bargains, to be sure, compared to a crabby matron past her prime. What he'd seen in her, she couldn't tell, and maybe she was fortunate that he'd leave before coming to his senses. But if she could have nothing else, at least she could have this moment, and she wouldn't let fear or propriety stop her. She leaned in, and kissed him, like she'd dreamed of night and day since she first lay eyes on him. With his soft lips meeting hers, she could have believed herself lost in the dream yet, but the roughness of his beard against her lips told her that this was reality, a blessed reality that she had not known for years. His hands tangled in her hair and she leaned into the touch, her own finding – oh, her mother would turn in her grave at such debauchery! – his fine, taut behind.

"I don't have to leave right away," she murmured.

His hands remained in her hair, but his voice was grave as he replied, "Don't do anything you'll regret, love."

That warning was ridiculously late, but the tears in her throat drowned the laughter. She was beyond caring what others might think, or what it would mean to her marriage. The only thing that held her back was the knowledge of how much harder it would be to give him up after if she gave in. Raising her hand to his chest, she felt his quick heartbeat, willing it to remain in body memory.

"We could go downstairs for a bit," she suggested.

"Aye," he said. "The lads would like that too, I think. Have a proper farewell."

* * *

><p>This being their last day on shore, there were more pirates in the inn than on previous occasions, ranging from grizzled first mate Ryan to a small, darkish cabin boy who seemed to have something of interest going on outside, because he kept running into the room only to run out again. There was also a man in an ironed white shirt who looked down his long nose at her in a way that would have been intimidating if she hadn't had Mason and Bilal on her other side cracking dirty jokes. The taste of Jones's – Killian's – kiss remained in her mouth, and to rid herself of the sensation, she drained her cup of wine and had it refilled before even starting on the food.<p>

Halfway through her meal, Cecco handed her some dice, his dimples deepening even further. "Care to join in the games, dove?"

"Thanks. I'd love to."

Although she hadn't played dice many times in her life, her work as a shop girl had trained her to keep numbers in her head, and she soon worked out when to keep her dice and when to re-roll them. While Killian had first helped her out, he soon sat back and just watched. At first, she won a few bread rolls and a half-drunk bottle of wine, but when the first coins gathered round her plate it made her grateful to be _winning_, since if she had lost she'd have no way to pay them back. Sometimes a coin returned to its previous owner, or to someone else, but sooner or later it wormed its way back to her.

The pirates fortunately didn't seem to mind losing, and Killian's amusement was obvious, tinted with a certain pride as he ruffled her hair and said, "You're a clever one, aren't you?"

"Care to test your wits against mine, Captain?"

"Oh, I can take you," he assured her, with the customary suggestive tone, but beneath his raised eyebrows there was a dark melancholy in his eyes that reminded her that he'd never get a chance to fulfill those suggestions.

She pulled the bottle of wine closer and poured herself another cup. "You're on, then."

It felt like no more than an hour at the most before a meek, far too familiar voice called, "Milah?"

The crowd parted to reveal Rumpelstiltskin, looking more the grey mouse than ever surrounded by rowdy pirates.

"It's time to go," he told her, and she could see the dusk in the doorway behind him. There was something she was supposed to have done, she knew, some reason she wasn't meant to stay this long, but the sight of him annoyed her so much she pushed the feeling aside and scoffed at him instead.

"Who's this?" Killian asked with feigned disinterest.

"Ah, it's no one," she said, a desire bubbling up to hurt and humiliate and pay forward every rotten word ever said to her. "It's just my husband."

Killian's grin was wide but cold as he made a crack about her husband's height that had nothing to do with stature, and she laughed along with the crew. If she could have nothing else, at least she could make that damned little mouse pay for holding her back. She started speaking to him, every cruel word that she'd long stopped vocalizing because what was the point? It would change nothing. But tonight was different, she could not _abide_ him tonight and by heavens he would hear it.

"...Run home, Rumpel," she finished off, taking another drink. "It's what you're good at."

For a moment, she couldn't understand why she'd ever stopped saying things like that, when it felt so good. Then, another voice spoke, making her breath catch and all her remorse come flooding in.

"Mama?"

Bae. Bae, who couldn't go to Morraine's today, and she'd promised him to come home on time, she'd _promised_, and instead he'd heard... and damned it all, he'd _seen_...

If the world and the gods and her own pathetic excuse for a husband saw her as a drunken slattern, she could live with that, but Bae deserved better. And not only had she ruined herself in his eyes, she'd ruined Rumpel as well, and say what you wanted about the man, he'd _always_ been a devoted father.

Mortified, she slunk away, not even giving Killian or the others a glance farewell as she took Bae and led him out of that place.

Somehow she made her way home without stumbling or throwing up, keeping as much poise as she could manage even though the damage was already done. She put Bae to bed, and while she didn't want to kiss him for fear of all the wine he'd smell on her, she did caress him and sing him to sleep.

Two glasses of water and a visit to the privy later, she crawled into bed herself, halfway sober and with a head that had already started pounding.

Rumpel, sitting by the fire to make her some peppermint tea, asked haltingly, "You don't really wish I'd died during the ogre wars, do you?"

Her thoughts touched on Alma, devastated and alone. On her aunt, overtaken by ill health after she'd lost all of her sons. Would she have mourned so much, had Rumpel died too? They had loved each other once, in a way. Now, she couldn't bring back the feeling for the life of her. She didn't wish him dead, no. She wished him _gone_, gone from her life, except then there was Bae, who adored his father, who would have grown up without him. Would that have been better? It was an impossible game, a fantasy, and if she was to lose herself in fantasies, then why not the one that might have made everything all right?

"I wish you'd fought," she said. "Don't you?"

"Well, I'm alive," he said. " And I'm here with you, with Bae."

After all these years, he still didn't get it. Tiredness spread in her veins, and she wanted so much to hate him, or to love him, to feel _anything_ but this rot in her heart and this helpless rage. She couldn't have Killian, or the open sea, or her freedom, but wasn't there something else than this life to choose?

"Why can't we just leave?" she pleaded. "You don't have to be the village coward! We could start again, go somewhere no one knows us, see the whole world beyond this village..." The pirates' tales of foreign places returned to her mind. If she could once in her life see the Temple of Wisdom, inside and out, that might make the rest all right. And even if they never got that far, getting anywhere at all would be an improvement. Perhaps, with the remnants of their old life left behind, she could find it in herself to be the wife and mother she was supposed to be.

"I know this isn't the life you wanted," he deflected, "but it can be good here. At least try. If not for me, then for Bae."

Always Bae. The one true beauty in her life, wrought into a chain around her feet, and was Rumpel doing this on _purpose_? It didn't matter either way, she supposed. The truth still held. She couldn't bring Bae along on a pirate ship, Killian was right about that. Rumpel wouldn't leave with her. Leaving alone would make her the worst kind of mother and woman, worthy at last of the scorn she had faced. If she stayed, she'd have to be... she'd have to try to be the paragon of virtue they asked of her, and kill every part of her that rebelled. The dreams of the world beyond, the coldness of her family still aching in her bones, the forbidden lust for a pair of blue eyes, the sharp words on her tongue and the hard pride in her heart, it would all have to die or she'd poison everyone around her.

Could she do it? All the mockery she had made of Rumpel for not being willing to die for his duties, could she live up to that standard? Let patience and humiliaty kill her and reform her into something new, and find some gratification in that? It would be a true wonder if that happened.

"Okay," she whispered, more because she wanted to sleep and escape this conversation, than because she still believed in any wonderful things.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the peppermint tea and the glasses of water, Milah woke up at dawn with a desperate need to turn her stomach inside out. She hurried out of the cottage, squinting at the light, and made it halfway to the privy before throwing up, hunched over and shuddering.

When she returned, she found the water pails empty and picked them up to get some more.

"Milah?" Rumpel called.

"I'm just fetching some water," she said, throat burning, and he rolled over on his stomach, going back to sleep.

She stopped by Bae's bed and put the pails down to give him back his pillow, which had fallen down on the floor during the night. He moved slightly when she slid the pillow under his head, but didn't wake.

"I love you so much, little man," she whispered, kissing his sleep-warm hand.

The usually easy task of fetching water was uncomfortable in her current state, and when she'd filled her pails she rested by the well, drinking some of the water and waiting for her stomach to settle and her throat to stop burning. The headache she feared was a lost cause.

It would be the easiest thing in the world, she thought, to crawl into a bottle and never come out. She'd seen it done time and time again. After a while there was nothing left of the person that had been, nothing but a pathetic longing for the next drink, and that was a bloody lot easier to come by than what ached in her soul.

She could see the cottage, but actually going back to it seemed a hard chore and she lingered as long as she could, until she noticed one of the neighbour wives, off to milk the cows, giving her an odd look. Cheeks heating, she rose and grabbed the pails, starting to walk back, although when the woman had disappeared into the barn Milah's steps slowed again, and then stopped.

For a moment she stood still, thoughts chasing each other through her head, and then she dropped the pails hard on the ground as if they'd burned her hands, water splashing over her dress.

None of her racing thoughts sent any kind of message to her feet as she turned on her heels and walked past the neighbouring cottages, past the groves and meadows, down to the shore and then along the waterfront. Her steps were not quick, not at first, but there was no hesitation in them, moving of their own accord without asking permission. Soon she stopped thinking altogether, trusting that her feet knew what they were doing.

Sand and pebbles made their way into her clogs, but she didn't slow down, eyes fixed on the horizon, searching every ship and boat in sight. When she saw nothing but the ordinary fishing boats, she broke into a run.

There – a larger unfamiliar blot of bright colours that made her heart race faster even before she came close enough to see its conturs shape themselves into a ship. Two men guided the vessel from below, with a languid economy of movement that might suggest that they were just loitering, except for the way that they hardened into looming menace whenever anyone came too close.

As Milah approached, they unconsciously took that hard stance, and she was half prepared to back off, but sternly told herself that she _knew_ these men. It was Ryan, the first mate, and a crewman called Cooper. They quickly pegged her as a woman and relaxed, and when recognition hit their eyes they returned almost to their previous slouching.

Milah swallowed, wondering why the power that had made her walk this far couldn't also grant her words. "I'm here to see the captain."

"He's in his cabin," Cooper said, his creaky voice even creakier with caution. "Do you want to send him a message?"

The phrasing of any potential message escaped her, and she'd much prefer it if she could talk to Killian away from curious eyes, so she asked, "Can I... can I have permission to come on board? And see him myself?"

Cooper glanced at Ryan, who shrugged and called up to the ship: "Teynte!"

The young, skinny face of the cabin boy, topped off with short-cropped black hair, became visible over the gunwale.

"Come down here!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" the lad said and disappeared for a moment before reappearing on the gangplank.

Up close, Teynte turned out to be even younger than Milah had first pegged him as. His face, with its soft features and lack of hair apart from some fine black down near the plump mouth, claimed his age as 12 or 13 at the most, thought he moved with a self-certainty that suggested him to be an experienced man of the world.

"Mistress Milah requests a meeting with the captain, "Ryan said. "You're to escort her on board."

"Come on, then," Teynte said with a nod towards the ship, but after a cough from Ryan gave an exaggerated bow instead. "Milady, if you please?"

"Milah's fine," she said. "Thanks."

As she stepped on board after Teynte, Milah wished deeply that she'd met Mason instead, or Bilal, or another one of those rough-looking pirates that she'd come to know better. At least this child was a good deal more comforting to be around than those two below – not to mention more comforting than the haughty one standing by the stairs, who gave her a long, disdaining glance. Milah turned her gaze aside and became far too aware that she was still in her nightgown.

Teynte, however, was not remotely impressed. "Oh, all looking down your nose like some camel. This one's here to see the captain. Is he free for visitors?"

"For her?" he asked. His voice was surprisingly cultivated, which added to his cold, appraising tone. "Probably. Go ask him."

Teynte scuttled down below decks and motioned for Milah to do the same. When she did, one of her clogs fell off, and there was an explosive curse under her feet.

"I'm _so_ sorry!" Milah panted and hopped down the last bit.

"Don't worry about it," Teynte said, half laughing through the winces of pain. "I figure my head's hard enough to match any clog. Not the best shoes for shipwear, though."

Milah mumbled another apology and was then distracted by the nearby door, especially since Teynte was now knocking on it.

"Come in," Killians voice called, and Milah found herself ushered inside, face to face with him in the simple yet genteel environment that marked the captain's quarters.

"Milah!" he said, and she thought she heard a warmth underneath the surprise. If there were any darker emotions there as well, she did not want to know. "To what do I..."

"Take me with you," she said.

There was a low whistle from behind her, and Killian spoke with a dangerous calm as his blue eyes remained fixed on Milah, "Teynte, do step outside and close the door."

Once the door was closed with the cabin boy outside, Killian's features softened. "Are you sure?"

"I can't go back," she said, for the first time contemplating what would happen if he turned her away. Rumpelstiltskin would take her back, she had no doubt, the affront to his pride notwithstanding. He wouldn't have the courage to refuse her. But she couldn't. She _wouldn't_. If she wasn't allowed on the ship, she'd jump overboard rather than ever set foot in that cottage again, though some sense of pride of her own prevented her from saying so out loud.

"What about...?" He paused, and she fought off the image of Bae that filled the silence. "Have you thought this through?"

"Does someone drowning think before they grab the rope?" she shot back. "I've thought since last night, I'm done thinking."

There was another pause, and then he nodded, slowly. "As you wish."

He opened the door again, quickly enough that Teynte had to jump back not to get hit in the face.

"Take her to Cook," he said. "See if she's got any suitable clothes."

"Oh no, I..." Milah started immediately to protest, then silenced as she realized that she didn't really have much choice.

Teynte grimaced. "Anything of Cook's will go twice around her."

"Well, give it a try," Killian said mildly. "I will not offer menswear to a lady if I can help it – no matter how much some members of your sex seem to prefer it."

It took a moment for the implication of the comment to sink in, and when it did she stared at Teynte as the cabin boy's slight build took on a whole new meaning.

"You're a girl!?"

"Want to make something of it?" Teynte asked, chin up.

"No, sorry, of course not," Milah said, trying to match up the laddish attitude with the admittedly girly face and the... well, the clothes were loose-fitting and she was _not_ going to stare. She blushed in consternation.

"Don't be rude to the guest," Killian said. "Now, get going."

* * *

><p>Cook turned out to be a pale, tired-looking woman in grey, lumpy clothes, well past fifty years of age, and if Teynte's estimation of her size had been ungenerous, it wasn't off by much. Her width was matched to some degree by her height, which forced her to bend over slightly under the low ceiling of the galley. Yet the fine contours of her face and the graceful way she moved gave an impression of beauty – faded, perhaps, but there nonetheless. She took the fried mushrooms and the pot of beans off the brick stove before deigning to give the two of them any attention.<p>

"What have we here then?" she asked.

"My name's Milah," Milah said. "I'm... I'm staying on the ship."

"Captain sent us down here for clothes," Teynte added.

"_My_ clothes?" Cook asked. "And then what will he do, put her on deck as a scarecrow? Don't you have anything of your own?"

"I left in a bit of a hurry," she admitted.

"I'd say." Cook scratched her nose. "I don't think we've got anything in store, though you could ask Starkey. Actually, come to think of it, you might not look half bad in one of Starkey's shirts. We might have boots for you too, so that leaves skirts. I do have a wrap-around. Put a belt on that, and it should last you until next loot at least."

"Thank you," Milah said.

"Don't mention it." With a quick nod at them to follow, Cook took off her apron, wiped off her hands on it and ducked into a room behind the galley.

There wasn't much in there except a bed that filled up most of the floor, and a chest by its foot end. While the other two waited in the doorway, Cook rummaged about for a skirt.

"Do you mean to be a pirate, then?" she asked into the chest. "Or are you aiming for my job?"

"A pirate, I suppose," Milah said. She hadn't really thought of what she'd _do_ at a pirate ship once she got there, but she certainly didn't want to put anyone out of a job.

"She's the captain's _friend_," Teynte said in a tone of voice that didn't mean friend at all.

Cook put a hand on the bedframe and straightened up, skirt in hand. "Oh," she said, handing it to Milah. "I guess that solves the problem of where you'd be sleeping."

"Does it?" Milah asked faintly, with a certainty that this was the point where she went from out of her depth to full-on panic. Sleeping with Killian. Which, _yes_, the mere thought of it sent shivers up her body, but sleeping with him _now_? Right after leaving her husband, and it hadn't been any sort of marriage, but she'd only known Killian for a week, and this was... it wasn't... Was that why he'd let her on board? She supposed she owed him that much, but she hadn't wanted to owe him. She had wanted to – well, to love him. At her own pace.

"Unless you mean to take on more than just the Captain?"

"No," Milah said, quickly quenching the spike of fear that the question raised. "I hadn't."

Feeling even more self-conscious, she thanked Cook for the skirt and went with Teynte back to the stairs.

"Hey, Starkey!" Teynte called up them.

The haughty one ducked down his head and asked in a quiet voice that nevertheless carried through to Milah, "Can you keep her below deck a little longer?"

"What's going on?" Teynte asked, eyes narrowed.

"Just ten minutes or so?"

"We need a shirt. Can we have one of yours?"

"Not the lacy one," Starkey said, and straightened up hastily.

Teynte shook her head as they retreated. "That was odd."

"I will be allowed to leave, won't I?" Milah asked, her voice shrill, because Starkey had been much too eager to keep her out of sight. Straining her ears, she could hear him now calling out, "On your feet for the Captain!"

"You want to leave?" Teynte asked. "I thought you meant to stay here."

"I... yes, I am. But..."

The girl smiled. "Don't worry, we don't take prisoners. Too much trouble. Whatever's going on up there, it's got nothing to do with you."

She scurried through the sailor's quarters, past the cabins with eight or ten bunks in each, until she reached the one she was looking for. In front of each bottom bunk there was a combined seating area and box, and Teynte pushed the mattress aside to open the lid.

"Starkey's so prim you wouldn't believe," she said, rummaging through the box in a way Milah suspected wouldn't endear either of them to its owner. "Used to be an officer, same as the captain, except I never saw the captain put on airs like that. Got clothes as pretty as any you could want, he picks them out of the loots... how about this one?"

She held up a cobalt blue shirt with a round folded-down collar sewn on. It was a finely woven piece that would look decidedly strange in combination with Cook's grey wrap-around skirt, but there was no doubt that it was a fair deal better than the nightdress.

"Are you sure he won't mind?" Milah asked.

"He said not the lacy one. This isn't the lacy one." Teynte threw it to Milah and got up to close the door. "Come on, get changed, I'll cover for you."

Milah started to undress, trying to think of Killian as an officer. He'd learned fine speech and manners, even better than the ones she'd been forced to adopt back when she was a shopgirl, but there had been the occasional slip that made her believe it was a pattern learned late in life, not a matter of fine breeding. Maybe that had been wishful thinking on her part, making them more equal.

She also wondered what would happen if one of the pirates wanted to come into the cabin while she was changing. If Teynte would be able to hold them back.

"Do you feel safe here?" she asked.

"It's a pirate ship, isn't it?" Teynte answered, puzzled. "That's a dangerous job. We've had crew die. And it's not a year since Mason lost his eye."

"No, I meant... from the crew."

The girl's eyes rested thoughtfully on Milah's breasts under the as of yet unbuttoned shirt.

"Oh. _That_ kind of safe. Sure. The Captain gave me a dagger when I first came on board, but I never had much call to use it outside of work. Truth be told, I think most of the time they forget I'm not a bloke. Not that it would make much difference to some of them, but no, they wait until they get ashore or they ask Cook. We've had a lady on board a couple of times too. You're not the first."

"I'm not?" asked Milah, who had finished the buttons and was trying to make headway with the skirt. What other women had there been, and in what capacity? Cook's question became more clear if there used to be such a thing as a ship's wench.

Teynte grinned. "Don't worry. Nobody would dare touch the captain's girl. It really is safe – at least a whole lot safer than Gropecunt Lane."

Milah winced at 'the captain's girl' but her interest was caught by another phrase. "That's where you were before this? Grope... that sort of place?" She had wondered what would make a little girl choose a pirate's life, but that would do it all right.

"Aye."

"How old were you?"

"Twelve. Four years ago, this midwinter."

"You're sixteen?" Even knowing that Teynte was a girl, Milah had unconsciously stuck to the original estimation of her age.

"Getting too old for this job, I know. As soon as they find another runt to be cabin boy, I'll be promoted." Seeing how Milah struggled with making the skirt fit, Teynte bent down and fished the aforementioned dagger out from her boot. She rummaged some more in Starkey's box and took out a belt, which she punched a couple of extra holes in with the dagger. "There you go."

"Thank you." She hoped prim Starkey wouldn't mind too much about his belt being stolen and ruined.

"You look a whole lot better in that shirt than Starkey does," Teynte said with a tinge of pride. "Bet the captain will like it."

Milah really wished she'd stop saying that.

* * *

><p>When they made it back onto the deck a while later, there was a tension among the crew, like the feeling in the air before a thunderstorm. Cecco gave her one of his easy smiles, but wouldn't meet her eyes, and some of the others seemed even more awkward.<p>

Mason greeted her with a surprisingly soft, "Welcome aboard, lass. We're glad to have you."

"Thank you," she said, warmed by the sentiment but not much enlightened as to what was going on.

She spotted Killian towards the bow and made her way over, which brought her into Starkey's path.

"Oh! Hello again," she said, thinking of the once-pristine clothes she'd not quite managed to fold as neatly as before. "Thank you for the shirt. I hope you don't mind about the belt."

His gaze drifted down and he took on a slightly pained expression at the sight of the new holes, but he bowed. "Think of it as a gift."

So he did mind. His courtesy made her feel even more awkward, and she thanked him again, a tangled apology included, before finally reaching Killian.

When Killian saw her coming, his face softened, but there was something else beyond, a simmering anger that made her even more convinced that she had been deliberately kept out of whatever ugliness had been happening on deck. Did they think she couldn't take the harsher sides of piracy? That didn't bode well for her future on the ship.

_Could_ she take the harsher sides of piracy? She'd never fought anyone to the death, and while she'd seen her share of mortal injuries – who hadn't, these days? - causing them would be another matter. But if they insisted on mollycoddling her she'd never learn, and then what would she be good for?

Killian rested a hand on her shoulder, sending shivers down her spine. "There you are, lass. Looking lovelier than ever. That colour suits you."

"It's Starkey's," she said.

"I know. You're prettier."

It was his usual brand of shameless flirtation, yet it felt so much more serious now. He had given her passage, and his crew had given her clothes, and she _owed_ him.

She was spared having to come up with something to say as Ryan called from further down the deck: "Captain, we're ready to set sail!"

"Hold off departure a little while longer!" he called back.

"What are we waiting for?" she asked.

"Oh, maybe an angry mob or something like that," he said with a light, carefree smile that suggested a joke, except that it was as false as a tin coin.

"Why, what have you done?"

"Nothing, really." He brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. "Gods, that shirt brings out the colour of your eyes."

"What makes you think there's an angry mob coming?"

"Actually, I don't think there is," he said, sounding disappointed – no, stronger than that, disgusted, though he quickly shook it off. "Have you eaten? I believe Cook has breakfast ready."

She was still too crapulous to care much for food, but her stomach reminded her that it still needed sustenance.

"Breakfast sounds lovely," she said.

Perhaps it was an after-effect of last night's wine, or the grinding guilt that still remained at the back of her head, but she felt an urge to cry. Her presence was a burden on everyone, and yet no-one grumbled, not even Starkey with his haughty face and his legitimate reasons to be upset, or Cook, who in addition to the skirt gave Milah a rather fuller plate of breakfast than she wanted. There was just so much _kindness_, beyond any she had known for the past seven years, and it was given to her by a gang of pirates, at a point where she deserved no kindness at all.

When the ship at last started moving in the sea, Milah returned to the deck and stood by the gunwhale, watching the shore fade into the horizon, and she let the tears fall. She wrapped her arms around herself and cried for her little boy that she'd never hold again, and once the tears had started she kept crying for Alma, for the childhood they'd had together and which had been hopelessly ruined. She cried for her parents, even though they were both long since dead, and even for Gerald, whose name she'd been cursing long before he died. Her whole life was being ripped away, not just the present, but the past – but the strongest, fiercest tears were the ones of relief. She never had to go back there again.

"Are you all right?"

Killian. She shakily tried to wipe the tears away. "I'm fine. Sorry."

He gently put an arm around her shoulders and said, "We can arrange for you to be taken back, if you'd rather. Take another lap around the bay and put a boat in for someone to bring you home."

"No," she said, with a vehemence that would have stood even if his suggestion hadn't mean even more unnecessary work for his crew. "_Never_."

He pulled her closer, his chest against her back, with his breaths creating a soft, rhythmic motion. The touch was comforting, but when she looked up over her shoulder at his face, she'd have to be blind not to see the desire in his expression. Her body responded in kind, and her first instinct was to quench the temptation. But she could no longer lay any claim to being a married woman. After all these years, she was free. All she had to do was pay for her freedom, and that shouldn't be any sort of sacrifice.

_Whore._

That was what it came down to, wasn't it? If she took to Killian's bed, as everyone expected, she'd be doing it in gratitude, as remuneration of all that he and his crew had done for her. That was whoring, plain and simple. Running off with a strange man was bad enough, but if she could have claimed unbridled passion there would at least be something romantic about it. The truth was, though, that she didn't think she'd ever be unbridled again. Had they met on equal terms, she wouldn't be willing to let him in so close, so quickly, whatever her body said. Yet she was going to do it, in order to fulfill a sense of obligation that had been woefully missing in her dealings with her actual family.

The truth of it was, as much as she despised herself for it, whoring herself out for Killian was infinitely preferable to her married life.

She turned around, wrapped her arms around Killian's neck, and kissed him. This wasn't the tender regret of their first kiss, when she'd believed it to be their last. This kiss promised more, much more, and rather than restricting herself, she deliberately pressed up against him.

He returned the kiss with youthful eagerness, but there was skill in his approach, not too deep, teasing his tongue into her mouth rather than shoving it.

The ship lurched, and they broke free, he grabbing her arms to prevent her from stumbling.

"Bloody hell, woman," he breathed. "I'm half tempted to give command to Ryan and spend the whole day with you."

"But you won't?" she asked.

He shook his head ruefully. "But I can't."

That would have been too easy, getting it over and done with right away to clean the slate. Instead she spent the day waiting.

Oh, she did plenty of other things as well. She learned the layout of the ship, and the name of at least _some_ of the other crewmembers, though they tended to get tangled, and the cook's son turned out to just go by the name "Cookson".

"But that's ridiculous!" she protested to Teynte. "Cook is bad enough, but Cook-_son_? Surely he must have a name of his own!"

Teynte shrugged. "I think it's Fred. Or Frank. Something like that. What difference does it make? We've all got names to use, that's the important part."

Milah supposed that _was_ the important part, and that she shouldn't really complain, since a name like that made him fairly easy to remember. Soeng was the only crewman from Tsapfan, and Murphy was one of only two from Nmkwam, Bilal being the other, so they were easy too. Foggerty and Mullins had the same round faces and brownish hair, and she sometimes confused them when they were silent, but Foggerty stood out whenever he opened his mouth and revealed that Ruritanian accent. There were others she couldn't manage at all. By the end of it, she started to fear that even the ones she _had_ learned would fall out of her memory.

She wasn't used to being around this many people. Even during the last week, in the inn, she had been mostly focused on Killian, but now he had to work, and she was far too nervous of what lay ahead to hang around him anyway.

Towards noon, the wind increased, which helped the ships speed but not her stomach, which lurched along with every rolling movement of the decks. She only had to seek out the becurtained hole in the bow once, but it left her paler and more trembling than before. Dinner was harder to handle than breakfast, and Cook gave her a wry smile and some ship's biscuits, as well as pouring some apple vinegar in her water.

"If it gets worse, ask Soeng for some beginner's cuffs," she said. "No shame in it."

And perhaps there wasn't, but Milah was already tired of asking for things, so instead of getting beginner's cuffs, whatever those were, she excused herself after lunch and went to sit in a corner of the stern, as far out of the way as possible.

The waves danced below, rocking the boat, and the shapes and colours mesmerised her, overriding her queasiness as she thought of what it would be like to try and capture that dance on paper. The motion would have to be translated to stillness, of course, but how did you make a still image of something that never stilled? The sea was difficult enough to capture from shore, but out here it was another creature entirely, and she longed to show Bae, point out the most beautiful formations and watch him get gently sprayed by the highest waves. He'd ask about the people moving on deck, and she'd introduce them: Mason with his frightening countenance and dry sense of humour, Cecco, more vain than even the captain, Teynte, who'd been just a child herself when she came on board.

Never was such an awfully long time. It was easier to think of someday. Someday she'd get to show him – and she tried to avoid imagining what he'd have to say to her, that someday.


	4. Chapter 4

There were far too many new impressions for the day to ever drag on, but it was still with a sense of relief mixed with trepidation that she reached the end of it.

"I'm sorry to have neglected you," Killian told her when he came to get her. "I hope you haven't been bored?"

She swallowed. "Not at all."

"Well," he said, "perhaps you would still like to join me for a drink in the captain's cabin."

"Of course" she said, commanding her limbs to stop shivering as she followed him downstairs.

The first thing she noticed was the narrow bed, or bunk, with drawers below and a wooden beam close enough that you'd have to mind it not to knock your head. Not the most comfortable of places, but she'd been in worse. If he even meant to do it on the bed – the table, in the middle of the cabin, was large enough. The whole area was large, and now that she had more time to look around than she'd had before, she saw the number of leather-bound volumes on the shelves, and the little mermaid statuettes adorning the window-frames. At least there were plenty of things to fiddle with.

"Pretty," she said, running her finger along one of the mermaids, from the arms crossed over the chest to the tipped-up fish tail.

"And a lot more docile than the living kind," he said, opening one of the cupboards. "I think there's a bottle of red wine here somewhere – I can't very well offer rum to a lady."

"I'd love rum," she said, feeling that the stronger the drink the better at this point.

"Really? Then you shall have it." He took out the bottle of rum and two cups, handing her one of them. "To your journey – may it be a fortunate one."

"To my journey," she said, "and the captain taking me."

He smiled and clinked his cup against hers. "Indeed."

The rum burned on its way down, and she clung to the sensation. Killian's eyes were on her, and she knew she had to succumb to that, but postponed it by asking, "Have you read all of those books?"

"Most of them," he said. "Piracy can be slow sometimes... and I don't always have the pleasure of your company."

Taking a book out of the shelf, he browsed through it. "Hang on, let me show you... here." He tilted the page in her direction, and she stepped closer to see.

There was an engraving of a building, with large rounded roofs and towers, and she recognized it from the poor attempt she'd made to create its likeness a few days before.

"That's the Temple of Wisdom," he said.

She could find no words to describe its beauty and only sighed, lost in the multitude of shapes.

"I don't have a picture of the interior, but... we'll be stopping by Cockaigne first, this little town called Sextiae, but after that we're headed for Atlantis, and I'll show you."

"You'll take me to Atlantis?" she asked, awed by the concept of finally getting to see the wonders she'd heard so much about.

"In just a couple of weeks."

It was happening. All the things she had dreamed about were actually _happening_, and she gave him a wide smile, his arms around her and everything right with the world for a brief moment.

Until he reached down and kissed her, and she froze.

He pulled back instantly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, heart pounding. "Don't stop. Get it over with."

"Get it...?"

She hadn't meant to say that out loud, and she kissed him back to make him forget her words. The strategy seemed to work – he pulled in closer, trailing kisses along her jaw.

When she had rehearsed this in her mind, she'd assumed that Killian would only need a little push to get started, if that, and then proceed on his own. In reality, whenever she stopped reciprocating he'd continue for a little while and then trail off, puzzled. It wasn't smooth sailing so much as a little lost rowboat. Milah refused to believe that a man of Killian's age and fine features wouldn't know his way around a woman, and she realized with a sinking feeling that he didn't just want her – he wanted her to want him.

Which, dear Gods, she was already starting to soak the inner layers of the skirt and he hadn't even reached below the waist yet, but at the same time she couldn't stop the shudders of revulsion at his touch. At herself, in this situation with someone who was not just her captain but her saviour, with the only way she could repay him being to give him anything he wanted. His crew already talked about them like they were a done deal, while her bed back home hadn't yet gone cold.

She had inured herself to having to sell her body once, but to keep it up, with a man who, under other circumstances, she could have loved as he should be loved? In the long run, she'd either have to break his heart or become his kept woman. Was there nothing in this world that she wouldn't destroy just by touching it?

Killians hand moved down her shirt – Starkey's shirt, not hers – undoing all of the buttons, and she sat down on the bed, prepared to lie down and take what was coming. When he leaned in against her, she could feel him getting hard, and hoped that he would not take long.

Then he looked up from his activities, met her gaze, and drew back.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

The thought of outright lying to him became too much, and she burst into tears.

"Sshh," he said, withdrawing further. "It's fine, you don't have to..."

"I'm sorry," she said, wrapping her arms around herself like one of his mermaids.

He reached out to wipe the tears from herself, and she flinched. This was all wrong, this was him doing even more for her, and she couldn't even pull herself together enough not to hurt him more.

"I thought I could do it," she said. "I owe you so much, and I can't even manage to do this for you."

His hand snatched back as if she'd burned him. "Is that what this is? Payment?"

Shame clogged her throat, and she couldn't reply.

"I thought... I thought we were..." He broke off and stood up abruptly, staring out the window, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "You don't owe me anything."

No matter how much she wished that was true, it didn't change reality. She turned away and started doing up her buttons with fumbling hands.

The warm shadow of his hand hovered above her shoulder, and she steeled herself, but then he exhaled through his teeth and left, door slamming behind him.

At that, her tears flowed even more freely, and while she knew she ought to dress herself and leave the cabin, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Where would she go? Out to face the crew, their disappointment or derision? There was nowhere else – she certainly couldn't stay in here, having practically thrown the captain out of his own cabin.

Was this what she had abandoned Bae for? Just another form of misery? She supposed it was no more than she deserved.

There was a knock on the door, and she tried to wipe her tears away, before she determined that getting her shirt back on was her first priority. While she was doing that, the door opened and Teynte stepped in.

"Well, you're a right mess," she said, eyeing Milah, who slowed her frantic attempts to cover up. After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Milah shook her head, ashamed to have brought such suspicions upon the captain.

"I didn't think so, but you never know with people, do you?"

Milah wiped her eyes and returned to getting her clothes on straight. "I just couldn't go through with it."

"Why the bloody hell not?" Teynte asked, sitting down on the bed. "Don't get me wrong, if any man tried to stick his cock in me I'd just as soon cut it off him, but you seemed to like the captain."

"I do," Milah said. "That's the worst of it."

"How?"

Milah shrugged, unable and unwilling to put her feelings into words. She wondered if Teynte had been sent to get her out of there. She couldn't stay the night, after all, the captain would need his cabin. Perhaps she could stay on deck, in the corner she'd occupied before, but it was bound to get cold during the night.

"Do you know if there's a bunk I could sleep in?" she asked tentatively.

"You can have mine. I'll use the top one instead."

"Oh, but... I didn't mean to..."

Teynte just rolled her eyes and pulled Milah up from the bed. "It's either that or Cook's room, and she wouldn't like losing the extra income. Anyway, the captain's in there now."

Milah stopped short on her way out of the room. "The captain's... with Cook?" After what she'd done, she had no right to get upset, no claim on him whatsoever, but it still stung that he'd be so ready to go from her to another woman just to satiate his lust.

"For advice, not venery," Teynte said, but added with a chuckle, "Though with the way he was walking, it might be both."

The thought of Killian discussing her with Cook was a bit more palatable, if not much, and Milah followed, mollified, into the next cabin. Teynte's bunk was by the door and covered with a curtain, which was now briskly shoved aside so that the girl could climb up to the top and hand down all the items she'd stacked there. It was clothes, mostly, including some strange bodices that looked like they'd flatten anything below – which, Milah realized, was the point. She put those in the box below, along with the weapons, money purse, and few personal trinkets.

It took some inventive packing to fit it all in, since the box was already occupied with items that, by the size of them, were _not_ Teynte's and most likely belonged to Bilal and Soeng, who had the next pair of bunks and were already asleep. Milah tried to keep their things as neat and undisturbed as possible, but still had to refold some clothes to make room for Teynte's things. Pulling the curtain, she finished by taking off her own new clothes and placing them on top, apart from the clogs, which she left standing in the corner. At least she had a nightdress to call her own.

Lying down under the blanket, she could hear Teynte rummage about up in the top bunk, getting ready for sleep. Around them, more sailors came in to do the same, and Milah was grateful that the curtain meant she didn't have to face them. Eventually, all the bustle was replaced with the slow breaths of sleep, or in some unfortunate instances, snoring. Along with the waves hitting the side of the ship, and the creaking of the wood, it made for a louder bedchamber than she was used to, but at least she had the bunk all to herself.

The heavy darkness was calming to her worn-out thoughts, and she slowly drifted off – until the moment when she woke up with a jolt and called out, "Bae!" certain that she had fallen and dropped him somewhere.

It took a few heart-pounding moments for her to realize that it was a dream, and once she did, it helped little, since it came with the knowledge that she had left him behind, and if he needed a hand to hold, she wouldn't be there to provide it.

Rumpel will be there, she told herself, and while the thought of her husband churned her stomach in a different ways, she forced herself to think of him, of his love for Bae and how he'd never, ever let him down. They were better off without all the quarrels – without her.

Her head was spinning with middle-of-the-night thoughts, and one made it through in perfect clarity: after all these years scorning her husband, she'd gone and done the same thing, abandoned all duty to save her own miserable life.

Sleep offered little solace after that.

* * *

><p>Milah was still tired when she woke up in the morning, but knew that she had to face Killian, the sooner the better. If not to explain, then at least to apologise and find a way forward.<p>

The crew was busy this morning, and she gathered from the things they said that they were approaching Cockaigne and had to stay out of sight from the navy, which confused her, since Cockaigne was at war with Avalon and should have been natural allies, though perhaps pirates had no natural allies.

Because of this, despite her intentions, it took a fair while before she could take Killian aside and tell him, "I'm so sorry for last night."

For a moment, he merely watched her in silence, and then he gave a minute bow.

"You are obviously not under any sort of obligation to me," he said, the flatness of his voice all the more alarming in comparison to his usual flirtations. "I suppose your desire to use any method available to you is... understandable."

"That doesn't make it right," she said. "You'd be at your full right to maroon me at the nearest shore."

At that, he straightened to his full length. "The choice is yours entirety."

So courteous, and so cruel – but any cruelty she received, she'd given in kind, and she didn't respond to it now. "I want to stay," she said honestly, "but only if I can be of some use. Not as a charity case."

His face softened slightly. "I could talk to Starkey. Your art skills could be useful for making charts."

The thought of having to face Starkey's superior airs all day long was less than appealing, but she recognised that he'd offered her a position where she could make a proper difference, rather than be in the way.

"Thank you," she said.

"I think he's doing inventory at the moment. Why don't you go offer your services?"

Since he made no offer to go with her, she made a small curtsey and went off on her own.

The day before she'd only had a chance to see part of the ship, but the cargo hold was easy enough to find, large as it was. Once within it, though, she had to follow the sound of voices around bags, barrels and crates, until she found Starkey in the middle, ordering two junior crewmembers around. He'd made a makeshift desk and chair of two wooden crates, and was writing down numbers that the other two hollered at him.

"Excuse me," she called, "the captain said I should offer my services... for making charts."

Starkey looked over his shoulder at her. "Oh, are you in my charge now?" he asked with a tired sigh. "Well, I'm not making charts at the moment. Is there anything else you can do?" When she hesitated, he asked, "Can you count?"

"Sure," she said, torn between defiance and dejection. Neither seemed a useful response at the moment.

He pointed into one of the aisles. "In there's the salt. Count the salt."

As assignments went, it was easy enough, though not terribly interesting. Milah counted the salt, which ended up being a whole lot more salt than she would have expected, and proceeded on to the tea. There wasn't as much tea as salt, but from what she'd seen of the crew, the amount of tea they drank was none at all. By the time she finished with the vanilla, curiosity got the better of her and she went back to ask Starkey in person.

"We robbed a merchant ships a fortnight ago," he said, somewhat mollified now that she was doing actual work. "Some of the stock we sold in the Enchanted Forest, but we're bringing the rest to Cockaigne. It creates goodwill among the local population and makes it easier to bribe any meddling bailiff or navy captain – we rarely have any trouble with either in Sextiae."

"You deal in spices?" she asked. "I thought you would have been more interested in gold."

"My dear madame, this _is_ gold. What good is money in your pocket if your food rots during the winter? Now, we had three and sixty pounds of salt going into the Enchanted Forest and sold twenty-six of them there, that leaves..."

"Thirty-seven," she said. "You're missing five pounds."

The look he gave her suggested that she'd managed to surprise him. "I'm not missing them," he said. "Cook asked to have them. I think it might be another idea to keep another five for her. We don't know when we'll find spices again." He made a note of it in small, round handwriting and went back to scrutinizing her. "You're quick. Can you write?"

"A little bit," she said. Writing had never been a top priority at home, but she still remembered some of what she'd learned in her younger years. "I used to be a shop girl."

"So you can do sums."

"Yes."

"Excellent." He moved aside and pushed the book in her direction. "Double-check these, spare me the trouble."

She did so, using her rusty arithmetics skills, and got a nod of approval from Starkey on her numbers, but a mournful shake of the head on her handwriting. When he was satisfied, he sent her out to count some more items, and then come back for a double-check of those. It was remarkably similar to being a shopgirl, which wasn't something she ever would have expected of piracy.

After the dinner break, they kept at it, and then had a few hours to spare before the Jolly Roger would sail into port and it was time to discharge.

"You did well, madame," Starkey said as he closed his book and the other two moved his makeshift desk aside. "Especially considering those horrid affairs on your feet."

Milah had to admit that the judgement was accurate. Even in calm sea, the ship moved enough to make walking in clogs precarious, and when it came to climbing up to count crates and bags, she'd had to kick them aside.

"There were no boots my size," she said.

"That can be remedied. Do you speak Cockaignese?"

She shook her head. There had been little reason to learn any foreign languages back home – she had nowhere to go, and any strangers passing by was most often from further into the Enchanted Forest. Sometimes there was a visitor from Avalon, but Cockaigne was on the other side of ogre territories and the war.

"Then allow me to escort you to the shoemaker."

"Oh," she said, nonplussed, and then it sank in that she was only hours away from setting foot on foreign shore, from a pirate ship no less, and the first thing she'd do would be to see a _shoemaker_. She chuckled. "I'd be delighted."

* * *

><p>Language aside, Cockaigne turned out to be not all that different from the Enchanted Forest. True, Sextiae was larger than her own village, but she'd been to town a few times as a child and recognised the bustling crowd. It wasn't a disappointment, as such – it was still a <em>new<em> crowd, with new people who smiled at her and tried to sell her goods, honing in on the naïve visitor who might have money and could be tricked into spending it. She could see the exploitative glint in their eyes and laughed, because she might be an outsider but she was no longer a pariah.

Starkey put her hand firmly in the crook of his elbow and led her through. There was a decidedly avuncular tone to his attitude towards her, which was rather amusing since he must be less than a decade older than her. Nevertheless it inspired her trust, and she let him set the pace, right up to the point where she saw a multicoloured glimmer by the horizon.

"What's that?" she asked, nodding in the direction.

"Glass Hill."

A long time ago, when she was a girl, Milah had heard a minstrel sing of the Princess of Glass Hill and the Ashen Boy that won her apples and her heart. She turned immediately and hurried her steps, because this was much more important than any boots.

"You don't want to wait with this until we've seen the shoemaker?" Starkey asked. "No, of course not."

They walked briskly through the streets and alleys, and Milah no longer had eyes for anything that went on around her, just the glimmering view ahead. At last they rounded a corner and stood at the foot of the mountain, the rainbow colours broken down into panes, clear ones in front and behind those pink, purple, yellow, blue and any other colour, all set in metal frames.

"Is it all glass?" she asked breathlessly, trying to calculate the cost and effort it would take to create something like that.

"Semi-precious stones," Starkey said. "More durable. More expensive too – but I suppose if you're a witch as well as a countess, you can afford it."

"A witch?" she asked. Looking closer, she could see the cracks and shadings in the stone, but that only served to make the effect more beautiful. "I thought it belonged to a princess."

"It's a school, for high-bred ladies. Very strict, only lets the girls down for holiday celebrations, and doesn't let anyone up." He threw her a glance and added, drily, "In theory."

"I heard something about apples...?" she prompted.

"Ah, yes, the Lady Amelle. It happens from time to time, a girl manages to get around the supervision to encounter some young man and inform him of the way up. Then they elope, and the families draw the conclusion that someone who can scale Glass Hill must by definition be worthy. Of course, usually it's a prince, or duke, or someone like that. Not a farmboy."

She laughed and shook her head. "Clever. How do they get groceries, though?"

"Levitated through witchcraft. Are you done looking? If you want the boots done we'd better get started early."

"Just give me a moment," she pleaded, and he did.

She would have given a great deal to have coal and paper at hand, but of course she had nothing to give and boots were more important anyway, so she settled for imprinting the mountain onto her memory as well as she could, before coming along to the shoemaker.

There was a mother with a young child being equipped before them at the shoemaker's. The child was only two or three at the most, of indeterminable sex, with shaggy dark hair and a slight pout that suggested this was not a favourite pastime. Milah had to look away, eyes burning.

The measurement of her feet, once it was their turn, proved no trouble, but haggling took some time. The boots would have to be finished before they were ready to set sail again, so Starkey paid extra in order to be bumped up the waiting list, and then extra again for highest quality craftsmanship and leather, and by then the price was so ridiculous that Milah had to protest. Her feet were not an unusual size – she could see standard lasts by the wall that would do quite nicely. She did not require finest leather, as long as it was sturdy and would last the rough seas. They could wait two days, but no longer, and the price would have to be halved.

The shoemaker explained, in Starkey's translation, that in such short time and for that price they would require a witch.

"Perhaps we do," she said. "Mr. Starkey, do you know where to find a witch?"

When it became clear to the shoemaker that they were actually considering employing a witch's services instead, he hastily amended his price with five silver and lamented that he would have to take help from his apprentice, who was nowhere near fully trained, and that the quality would suffer.

"It will do," Milah said. "Maybe next time we'll get an extra pair for the holidays."

Starkey was not expressive by nature, but his lips curled as they left the place.

"You got a good price," he told her, "but I fear you'll be getting farmer's boots."

"Nothing wrong with farmer's boots," she said. "We don't have the time to wait for calfskin and ornamentation, and I'm not about to let you spend any more of your money than necessary. You've already done enough for me. I don't suppose there's enough time for a dress?"

"Unfortunately, no," he said. "But you're welcome to that shirt as long as you need it."

She felt a blush creep up her cheeks. "Thank you. I do wish I'd given myself time to pack, but truth be told, I hadn't planned to leave. I just... rushed off."

"That would explain why your husband..." Starkey began, and then quietened with a cough, searching his pockets for tobacco.

She stopped short. "Why my husband what?"

Starkey found the tobacco pouch and proceeded to stuff his pipe.

"Mr. Starkey, what do you know of my husband, considering the fact that I can recall no time that the two of you met?"

"He came to the ship," Starkey said reluctantly. "He thought we had taken you by force. The captain challenged him to a duel and then he left."

Abduction. As an excuse, it had its fine points – if that story spread, she'd be considered blameless, though she doubted anyone who had seen her at the inn would believe it. Any positive sides were drowned out by anger when she realised why she'd been kept under deck when she'd first come on board, and what had been going on over her head.

"Where's the captain now?" she asked, and when she didn't get a reply right away, "Starkey, where's Killian?"

"He has a meeting with some local smugglers. They'll be back at the ship."

Milah didn't bother waiting for Starkey. She turned and ran towards the ship, tripping twice before she decided to just kick off her clogs and keep going. The crowd still pushed and called out, but she paid them no mind. Only when she reached the ship did she slow down, smoothing her hair before she marched up there.

Killian was standing on deck with two strangers she presumed were the smugglers, and he looked bewildered upon seeing her. "Milah, what...?"

"Are you proud of yourself?" she shouted. "Fighting a cripple, is that your idea of a good time?"

His eyebrows shot up, then lowered as he grasped her meaning. "Is this about your husband?"

"Of course it's about my husband, you oaf! Why didn't you just tell me he was here?"

"Gentlemen, if you'll give us a moment," he said, then led her aside, hand firm but not forceful around her arm. "I was under impression that you did not wish to speak to him," he told her in a low voice. "Why else wouldn't you do so before you came on board?"

He had her there – a part of her was pathetically grateful that she hadn't been asked to confront Rumpelstiltskin herself. At the same time, Killian had made her unwittingly complicit in his sordid deception, and that didn't make her feel much better.

"So you just beat him instead?" she asked.

"I didn't touch the man," he said with scorn. "I threw him a sword and said... well, I implied that you'd be passed around the crew. He refused to take the challenge, unless you call blubbering a reply. So in the end, I kicked him off the ship. He's every bit the coward you said he is, that one."

There was a nasty turn to his smirk, a side of him she didn't like, but oh, she could see the scene play out, Killian making a mockery, while Rumpel slunk away – that miserable little _mouse_ – and all the crew there to watch. To know that even if he'd believed her enslaved and about to be raped by pirates, her husband would do nothing to help. So much for his insistence that he'd malingered himself for her sake.

"He couldn't have beaten you," she said, attempting to be fair. "And you had the whole crew with you. What would you have him do?"

"_Try_," he said. "Or failing that, at least run for help. It's not honourable, but at least it would get the job done."

"An angry mob," she said slowly as she remembered the way he has delayed the ship's departure. She shook her head, dismissing the notion. "No-one would have come for me."

"No-one would have come to rescue you from being abused by a shipful of pirates?" His features twisted in disgust. "What the bloody hell kind of village did you live in?"

There was no reply to that, and she bit her lip, humiliated by the simple truth.

"Milah," he said, sounding softer than he'd had since their disastrous time in his cabin. "I don't blame you for doing whatever you had to, to get away. I just..." He swallowed. "I wish you hadn't lied to me."

"I didn't lie," she said, and when he started to speak, broke him off: "I didn't. You're beautiful, and if things were different... but I only just left." The last word could barely be heard over the tears in her voice.

"There's no hurry," he said. "Gods, I would have been willing to wait, but you seemed so eager."

"Because I'm in your debt," she said. "I thought I could do it out of gratitude, but I can't. And the truth is, if I let myself feel what I'm feeling, I'd be entirely at your mercy, and would have nothing to protect me if things go wrong. Which they could."

She could see him wanting to protest that nothing would go wrong, and hoped he wouldn't, because then she'd have to admit how wrong things had gone before, and why she couldn't place all of her trust in him.

"Bloody hell," he said helplessly, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't want you to feel that you're in my debt."

"I am, though," she said. "And wishing doesn't change that. I'd feel a lot safer if I could merely be a pirate."

"Then be a pirate," he said, hesitating for a moment before stroking her cheek, as if the touch itself might be too much. "Not a word from me to suggest anything more, I promise. Starkey seems happy enough with your work." A smile spread over his face, but didn't reach his eyes. "In fact, seeing how he's carrying your shoes for you, he must find you valuable indeed."

Milah turned and saw Starkey, deep in conversation with the smugglers. In his right hand, he held both of her clogs.

"Oh," she said, feeling foolish.

"Must have made quite an impression," Killian mumbled. His grin almost seemed genuine at this point. "Listen, lass, this is your home as long as you want it too. After all, you can't leave before you've seen Atlantis."

"No," she said, giving him a brittle smile back. "I can't, can I?"


	5. Chapter 5

When they sailed from Cockaigne a few days later, Milah had a pair of perfectly adequate new boots and time to think. Working for Starkey suited her well, and if that was to be her main duty, she didn't mind, but the Jolly _was_ a pirate ship. Sooner or later they'd attack somebody, and when they did, she'd prefer it if she weren't a complete liability. She suspected that in such an event, Killian planned to keep her below deck – again. Well, if that was the best place for her, so be it, but she wouldn't allow it to be a foregone conclusion.

Approaching Starkey about the issue would feel absurd. She had no doubt that he was a competent pirate, but seeing him with his books and charts, it was hard to imagine it. Her first idea was to ask Teynte, but a half-grown girl was not the most impressive teacher of battle skills, dagger or no dagger.

Mason was the obvious next choice, and so she waited until he had some time of rest and asked him to teach her how to fight.

He frowned deep enough that his eyebrow brushed the eyepatch and asked, "What, for plundering and like?"

"Yes," she said, and when the scepticism did not disappear from his face, "Teynte goes plundering, doesn't she? And she's smaller than me."

"Yuh, that she does," he admitted, giving her such a scrutinizing gaze that she uncomfortably recalled that in addition to being smaller, Teynte was also younger, stronger, and more experienced. Just as Milah was ready to crawl out of her skin, Mason continued, "I suppose I've dealt with worse. I'll get you a sword."

"What, now?" she said, all the arguments she'd started to gather in her mind suddenly unnecessary. "A real one?"

"We don't have fake ones," he said. "Unless you want to fight with a mop."

"A sword is fine," she said.

He lumbered off to get them, and she tried to maintain a nonchalant stance, as if their conversation had been about nothing in particular. Rather pointless, really, since anyone on deck would be able to see their training session. Maybe she should have waited until the next time they got to shore, but that could be weeks, for all she knew. They were headed for Atlantis now, and she'd been told of no stops along the way.

It didn't take him long to come back with a pair of swords – not the long broadswords she was used to from the soldiers back home, but a shorter, slightly curved kind.

"Right then," he said, tossing her one of them.

That was the only introduction. She found herself struggling to find a good grip, accompanied with comments just as terse as his first one:

"No, not like _that_," he'd say. "Like _this_." After a couple of rounds of that, he specified with, "Ease the grip. Not that much!"

There was no real malice in the way the orders were barked out, but they confused her nonetheless, and she started to wish that he could have been just a smidgen more eloquent.

After a while he nodded and proceeded to criticize the way she stood, which she took to imply that her grip on the sword was now somewhat acceptable. By the time he had proceeded to actually attacking her, the crew had caught on to what were happening and were craning their necks.

Teynte was the first one to actually run over, like a little curious squirrel complete with glittering dark eyes. All she needed was a fluffy tail; instead she'd have to do with the riggings she leaned up against.

"Parry like this," Mason instructed, and gave an appreciate grunt at her effort. Teynte, however, snorted in laughter.

"Don't laugh," Milah complained.

"Sorry," Teynte said in an utterly unapologetic way. "It's just... you're trying to look like him, and it doesn't really work, because you don't look like him."

Mason gave Milah a long, thoughtful look. "Got a point there. You won't scare anyone."

"Maybe not yet," she admitted, "but when I get the hang of this, I bet I can make them."

"Not like she means," he said decidedly. "You can't scare them off you."

"Well, that can't be necessary." She turned to Teynte. "You fight, and you're not very intimidating."

"And that suits me just fine," Teynte said with a grin. "Makes it more of a surprise when I stab them in the guts."

"Right," Mason said slowly, and then nodded at Milah. "Go with that."

"Make them underestimate me?"

"Yuh."

"Make yourself smaller," Teynte said. "More pitiful."

"Like your husband," Mason said, causing Teynte to laugh again.

"It's not funny!" Milah protested, but she did her best to comply. Emulating Rumpelstiltskin was too nasty for her to try, after what she'd put him through, but she let her shoulders droop and her gaze flicker, knees rubbing against each other.

"Hm." Teynte scratched her neck. "Not the best actress, are you? Maybe you should show some bosom. That ought to distract anyone."

"Enough of that," Mason grumbled, before ordering Milah, "Little and lost. Good. Now kill me."

She shifted, as ordered, from the frail stance she'd taken on to a position of attack, and the sword was promptly blocked.

"Again," Mason ordered.

At this point, Cecco was sauntering towards them, with an air of pretended indifference, which made it easier for Milah to cringe in shame, but harder to find the proper ferocity for her attack. Having Mason and Teynte criticize her wasn't so bad, but Cecco was just as handsome as his captain and twice as arrogant, and his amused gaze was hard to take – especially at it was followed by half-suppressed laughter at her inexpert attack.

"Again."

She was only too happy to follow the order and push her sword forward, mind focused on getting every single thing right that she'd been taught. It didn't stop Mason from parrying with ease, with a force that slammed the sword out of her hand and onto the deck.

"Not bad," he said with a grin. "I'm still alive, though. Again."

She did pick the sword back up, but only to hand it to him. "This was a bad idea."

Teynte protested, and Milah could hear some calls of disappointment from the other crewmen as well at being deprived of their entertainment, but she didn't care. Her first thought was to seek up her old corner of the deck to sit in, but there were people all over today, up in the rigging and all, so instead she went down to the cabin.

As it turned out, there were already people down there, with Bilal stretched out shirtless on his bunk while Mullins and Soeng were kneading his back. He didn't seem injured, but their demeanour was too matter-of-fact for anything more intimate. Despite her mortification, Milah stopped in the doorway, fascinated.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asked.

"Medical training," Mullins said, pressing his thumbs down. "How do you feel?"

"Relaxed," Bilal said with a yawn.

"Seems I'm getting the hang of it. That's a hell of a method you've got there, Soeng."

"The experts do it with needles," Soeng said.

"You're expert enough for me. Care to take over my job?"

"Anyone tries to stick needles in me," Bilal said, his voice muffled by the bunk, "I'll shove them down his throat."

Soeng laughed. "You heard the man. I wouldn't dare come near him with a needle. Not to mention open surgery."

"That's awfully squeamish for a pirate." Mullins proceeded further down, and Milah shifted slightly in the doorway.

"Well, when I cut someone open, I like to _leave_ afterwards. Not poke around in there and see what I find."

They all laughed at that, even Milah, who remained fixed at her spot until a thin hand landed on her shoulder. She turned to see Teynte, who gave her a sympathetic grimace.

Preferring not to have this conversation, whatever it would be, around the others, Milah stepped out and closed the door behind them.

"Listen, about up there," she started.

"You are much too fond of your dignity," Teynte said.

That statement was horribly ironic. Milah sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I don't _have_ any dignity. And I'm sick of it."

"Well, you're not going to get any here," Teynte said. "We're on a ship. Haven't you noticed? One week here and I bet you know already who snores, or farts, or pick their nose, and you and I are the only ones who don't have to show ourselves naked. Well, apart from the captain, and I get to see him naked, so..."

That thought was temporarily distracting and quite a bit unsettling. "You see the captain naked?"

"He's got nothing I haven't seen and nothing I care about seeing," Teynte said, waving it away. "Point is, you can't escape from people and sometimes they're going to be tools."

"So you're telling me to get back up there and try again?" Milah asked.

"Nah. Mason's putting the swords away. He said to tell you you'll be trying again during dinnertime and take the meal an hour later. That way, you get to do it in peace without any meddling asses gawking at you. I think he meant me as well. Unless you want me there?" she finished expectantly.

"No. Sorry, no."

This new arrangement of Mason's was so thoughtful, though, that it gave Milah a lighter heart the rest of the morning.

* * *

><p>When dinner came, Milah slipped away to try fighting again, with some privacy this time.<p>

There was a man up in the riggings, one steering, and two minding the cannons. Milah registered all of them, the way their faces were turned towards the sea or bent over the work, and how much fewer of them there were than before. Then her shoulders lowered slowly and she accepted the sword.

"Ready to go?" Mason asked, lifting his own sword in position but making no move to attack.

She nodded and hesitated for a moment before getting her back curled in a suitably subservient position, toes scraping the deck. Counting the seconds she had to hold the pose, she then attacked, and Mason slammed her sword aside.

After two more attempts, he grumbled, "Teynte's right, you're not a good actress. Forget that stuff, just fight."

That meant she could take all that attention she'd spent on making her body smaller, and use it for actual fighting. The attacks didn't take as long to prepare, and though Mason still stood with both feet firmly on the ground and swatted her sword away, after a while he started counter-attacking, forcing her to parry. When she flubbed the defence the tip of his sword stopped inches away from her skin.

"Keep your guard up," he grumbled.

"I'm... tired..."

"You'll be more tired than this. Keep it up. And don't just hack at me." As he spoke, he caught the edge of her sword against his and let it slide off. "You got to think, use the weaknesses."

"Weaknesses, huh?" She moved aside and aimed her sword at the blind spot on his far right, but he shifted in that direction and parried, movements as fluid as before.

"Not the obvious ones they already know about," he said. "The small ones."

She shifted her blade low, beneath the torso, and his mouth quirked up as he parried.

"We all defend _that_. And it's not small. Or weak."

That sounded like something the captain could have said. Milah's arm wobbled a little, and she took a couple of steps back, lowering her sword. "Well, I'm going to have to think about some weaknesses of yours, then."

"Won't have time to think in a real fight," he said, but he stopped the training and picked up his flask, while she rubbed her back against the gunwale to get rid of the sweat.

As he handed her the flask as well, she braced for the taste of rum but instead got just the slight hint of vinegar she'd tasted at every meal from the water.

"Thank you," she said. "For all of it. You've been nice to me ever since that first day, and I haven't really done anything to deserve it."

"You made him smile", Mason said.

It took a moment, then she tentatively asked, "The captain?"

"Yuh. Real smiles, all over his face."

Coaxing a smile out of Killian had never seemed all that difficult, at least not before these past few days, where he'd walked around with his face all double-buttoned like a waistcoat. If that was his default state, perhaps Mason had a point – but that also made her frown before she reminded him:

"I haven't lately."

"You will. It wasn't all about bedding you."

She gave him a quick glance and asked, "Do you know him well?"

That made him frown and scratch his head under the kerchief. "No better than the others, I suppose. Not now that he's grown up."

It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. "You knew him as a child?"

"I worked for his old man a couple of times."

The notion of Killian as a little boy was new to her, and she imagined his features more delicate, with rounded cheeks and blue eyes larger under dark hair, hand in his father's... but the shape and hand became Bae's, and she swallowed hard.

"What was he like?"

"The captain or his old man?"

"Either."

"Well... Jim Newport was the slyest old bastard I ever knew. Generous with the money, but if you weren't looking he'd take it all back – or stab you _in_ the back for it, for that matter. The women loved him, though. That's how he did most of his work, hanging around ladies of the finer sets."

"What kind of work was that?" she asked. She recalled Killian on that first day, legs stretched out, the things he'd said and the jut of his chin.

"Never asked, but I got the impression he was selling secrets. Either blackmail or proper spying, you know? Bonnie Jim, they called him, and sometimes the lad was Little Jim, but he didn't like that much. Offended his wee dignity, it did. One lady got in the habit of calling him 'kitten'. I thought his head would blow, but Jim kept him in line and made sure he didn't say nothing."

"Kitten," Milah said, all melancholy forgotten, because she knew there wasn't a young boy _alive_ who'd tolerate that.

"Kit, he went by back then," Mason explained. "Kit Newport."

"Is that his real name? Not Jones at all?"

Mason chewed on his lip. "Don't know. The Navy lads say they travelled with his brother, and that he was a Captain Jones too. So maybe Newport was the false name. Wouldn't surprise me, with the way those two were living."

Milah sat silent for a while, conjuring up the image of Killian as a child and trying to make it fit with the knowledge she had of him in present time. It didn't take a genius to see where he got the flirtation and the arrogance, though his feelings seemed to run deeper – or so she hoped. Still, there seemed to be something missing. Somehow she'd imagined his background as more polished, though maybe it was just inference from his accent... but no, it was more than that. There was the question of how he had made his way into the Navy, and not only that, but made Navy men like Starkey trust him enough to become pirates for him.

"Wasn't the only thing different about him when he came back," Mason said, echoing Milah's thoughts. "All poshed up and gentleman-like, took me a while to believe it was the same bloke. He's harder, though, under it all. He was always such a cheerful little bugger, but now... I guess it happens to everyone, sooner or later. Life has a way of getting to you. Damn pity."

He shook his head, face even grimmer than usual, lamenting a loss of innocence that it was near impossible for Milah to imagine he'd ever had himself.

"What about his father? What happened to him?"

"Wouldn't know. Just stopped hiring me." Mason breathed out slowly between his teeth and rolled his shoulders before standing up again. "All right, break's over. Have you thought of any weaknesses yet?"

Small children, she thought, but she knew better than to say it out loud. Anyway, that wasn't a weakness she knew how to use.

* * *

><p>Since Mason's information had a fifteen-year gap, Milah figured that her best chance to learn more was through Starkey, but when she turned to him with her questions, he stared into empty space before asking:<p>

"Have you spoken to the Captain about this?"

"Well, no," she admitted. "I thought..." She trailed off, trying to think of a good way to phrase it.

"I think you should," Starkey said. "I wouldn't want to share any of his personal details."

Milah felt her ears heat, and her gaze flickered down for a moment before she decided to try a different approach. "What about you?" she asked. "What made you want to be a pirate?"

He gave her a far too perceptive smile. "We had a disagreement with the Crown. Of a moral nature."

"Whose morals, yours or theirs?"

"I hope my morals are always impeccable," he said drily, but with the smile still lingering around his eyes.

That was all she could get from him, and Teynte, while more ready to talk, knew even less. The Jolly Roger had already been a pirate ship when she came on board, and she cared little of what had happened before.

Milah supposed she would have been equally unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth if the captain had been anyone but Killian. Even with this distance between them, he was an itch at the back of her head that wouldn't go away. She could put her mind to her work and try to ignore anything outside of it, but as soon as anyone so much as mentioned the captain the ache started right up again. At least it was more bearable than the sharp pain of her son, which had fewer things to remind her but still flared up like a broken tooth almost daily.

Unfavourable winds made their journey slow and anything but straight, just empty waters and routine chores that left far too much time to think between her sword practice. Teynte tried to comfort her:

"We're entering a trade route, there are bound to be some ships soon. Then you'll get your first plunder! And after that, it's not far to Atlantis. Best place in the world!"

"Is that where you're from?" Milah asked. Teynte was dark enough to be Atlantean for sure, though the vague trace of an accent in her Avalonian was hard to trace.

"Thule," Teynte replied, with a curt shake of her head.

"_Thule!?_" Milah's theories came to a crashing halt, because according to common tales, Thule was supposed to be a land of tall, willowy blondes, not unlike what Cook must have looked like thirty years and a hundred and thirty pounds ago.

Teynte got the same dour expression as she'd sported back when her sex was in question, and Milah scrambled for an apology. In the end, Teynte relented and smiled.

"My father was a Wakandan sailor, or so I'm told. Never met him."

"Would you want to?" Milah asked cautiously, in case it was a sore issue.

Teynte shrugged. "Don't know, not really. Though when I first started sailing, I'd look for his ship in all the harbours, just out of curiosity. The Edwige, it was called. Never found it."

"So that's why your na..." Milah started, then bit her lip. She'd read the crew listing as she first started working, trying to learn everyone's names by heart, and first names had been listed along with the last. No one seemed to use Teynte's, though, and she didn't want to offend again.

Teynte grimaced. "You know about that, huh? It was a great relief, I can tell you, getting here and having people call me by my last name."

Milah meant to protest that there was nothing wrong with the name Edwige, that it was a good solid name – but solidity was not much of a recommendation where a young girl was concerned, and even less so for a pirate. She swallowed the comment and asked instead, "What is Thule like?"

"Cold," Teynte said, her arms tensing up at the memory. "Pretty in the summer, which lasts about two weeks. You'll probably get there sooner or later on a supply run. It's not allied with Avalon or Cockaigne, so we haven't been attacking them."

"Why do you attack both sides of the war anyway?"

"As I understand it, the Captain and the old navy lads have some grudge against Avalon, so they want to bungle up their war effort, except most of them are _from_ Avalon, so they don't want to give Cockaigne any sort of advantage. That makes it a sort of double privateering business, and what with allies on both sides, a damned lucrative one." She laughed at Milah's expression. "As long as I get paid, I don't care."

There was no particular reason why Milah should care, either. The Enchanted Forest usually sided with Avalon in wars, thanks to their common tongue, but with the ogre war going on, there were simply no resources to spare for any other battles, and alliances had proven frail at best. She had accepted the notion of piracy without asking for its aim; that it should strike twofold was none of her business. Still, it was a peculiar way of running things.

"I suppose I'll get to see it first hand soon enough."

"I hope so," Teynte said. "I'm almost out of money, and I want to buy a bath once we get to Atlantis."

That seemed an unusually frivolous way to spend money. "You could just bathe by the ship, once we've docked."

"I mean a _real_ bath," Teynte said. She smiled, slowly, her eyes half-closed. "With all the luxuries. You haven't lived until you've taken an Atlantean bath. Oh, just you wait, you're going to love that place so much!"

* * *

><p>Teynte's enthusiasm cheered Milah, and even more so the winds changing a couple of days later, so that they could pick up speed. An attack seemed imminent, and the thought gave her butterflies in her stomach, as she watched the sea and waited for any ship to come in sight.<p>

One morning she woke, and the sensation in her stomach was not so much butterflies as a churning pain, and she curled up, cursing herself for forgetting to count the days.

"Teynte," she hissed, low enough that the others shouldn't hear her. When she got no reply, she sat up, with some caution, but so far her bunk was still dry. "Teynte! What do you use for bleedings around here?"

"Huh?" came a sleepy voice from above. "What bleeding?"

It was of course possible that Teynte had not yet experienced her first bleeding – but then the mumbled question was replaced by a whip-clear "shit!" Two feet made an appearance over the edge of the bunk.

Teynte swung down and landed with a thump inside, still repeating "shit" under her breath.

"I'm so sorry," she said, eyes wide. "I plain forgot about all that. Here's the thing, cook has a potion to prevent it, but you have to start taking it _between_ bleedings, so if you're having your monthly already it's too late for this month."

"I'm not bleeding yet," Milah said, shifting in the bed to make sure that was true, "but I think I'm about to. Aren't there any rags or something?"

She longed to have a box of sheep's wool that she could just stick her hand into and take out a wad to wrap in cloth, like every month before, but Teynte looked dubious enough at the mention of rags that Milah suspected that she'd have to settle for dirty dishrags from the galley, or nothing at all.

From the other side of the headboard, Bilal said, "We got two bales of cotton left from the _Lady of Sunlight_ that we're meant to sell in Atlantis."

Milah winced at their conversation being overheard, but cotton sounded promising – if a rather expensive commodity to bleed upon. "Can I?" she asked.

Teynte shrugged. "I guess you could ask Starkey."

Bringing Starkey into this affair of women's troubles was less than appealing, but since she had little choice in the matter, she dressed quickly and walked with tight steps to his cabin.

Starkey recently awoken was more dishevelled than she would have imagined him, which was still not very – just wearing a wrinkled shirt and hastily put on pantaloons, his beard a smidgen longer than usual. He listened in sympathetic silence to her whispered request, but in the end only referred the decision on to the captain.

At that point, Milah was tempted to just go for the dish rags, but she could feel the first trickle come down the inside of her aching thigh, and the captain's cabin was closer than the mess. In the end, she sucked it up and knocked on his door.

Killian seemed more taken aback at her request than Starkey had been, but he readily agreed. "Of course. Take anything you need. Shall you require both bales?"

In a different situation, she might have laughed. "No – no, that won't be necessary. Only about this much, for the week."

She measured with her hands, and his face took on an expression of great relief.

"Oh, no more than that? Go ahead. We won't miss it."

With that blessing, the immediate practical problem was solved, as Milah dug out a suitable amount of cotton and returned to her bunk to press a fair wad of it against her nether regions. There were no strips of fabric to secure it to her belt, so when she left her cabin again she had to keep her thighs pressed together to keep the wad in place.

At home, the cramps had usually been manageable enough to let her keep working, but whether it was the forced uncomfortable position, or the motions of the ship, she was in the middle of mending sails when her stomach heaved and she had to get up on deck as fast as she could before throwing up. It was worse than that first, hungover day, and she braced herself against the gunwale with shivering arms, wanting nothing more than to crawl into her bunk, except there were no chamber pots on a ship and she'd have to get back up to empty her stomach again.

In the end, she remained where she was for most of the day, only going back down to get more cotton, and then to the hole in the fore to toss out the old wad. The men passing her by gave her pitying glances, which made her hunch down even further. A few had looks of distaste or exasperation, and in a strange way that felt better, that there was an end to the patience they'd had with her.

Killian came by and hovered helplessly for a minute before going away. A short while later, he returned with two thin strips of woven cloth, each with a wooden bead at the middle.

"Here," he said, sitting down on his heels to take her hand. "Wear these."

"What are they?" she asked, trying her best to pat down her hair and wipe her face.

"Beginner's bracelets. They're meant for seasickness, but maybe they'll help for this too."

As she let him tie the first bracelet around her wrist, her other hand automatically reached out for his face, so soft in concentration. Luckily, she caught herself in time and clenched her fist under her skirt. Since it didn't take him long to finish his task, she had to unclench it again in order to let him put the other bracelet on.

"Are they magic?" she asked.

"Soeng and Mullins both say no, and they ought to know. Apparently it just squeezes the right points somehow. I haven't the faintest idea how it works, but it does." He finished up and patted her wrists before looking up. "There. All done."

Quickly, she put her expression in check. "Thank you. You could have just sent Teynte."

"She's working. I, at the moment, am not." He frowned slightly. "Do you mind that it's me?"

"Of course not," she said, because she had missed this, speaking with him with no awkwardness – or, well, only very little awkwardness. She watched the way his hair fell across his forehead and wished that she could rid herself of all these bitter suspicions. That he could have been her first love.

But that was absurd, because when she was a young woman of seventeen, he would have been a child of Bae's age.

The thought tightened her chest, and she snatched her hands back. "It's most gracious of you, Captain."

Her tone was cold enough to made his face cloud over, and as he rose to his feet he muttered, "It's like petting a bloody hedgehog."

Possibly, she wasn't meant to hear it. Probably she was, and she felt her cheeks flush.

"I must be such a disappointment to you."

"I've had worse." He sighed. "I admit this isn't what I hoped for."

It wasn't what she had hoped for either, but she couldn't say that, or even properly apologise, without making promises that she might not be able to live up to. "I know."

"Well," he said, brushing his hands against his breeches, too lightly to be called a wipe, and yet she got the notion that he was ridding himself of her. "Get well soon. Starkey misses you down there."

She supposed being useful for her arithmetics skills would have to suffice.


	6. Chapter 6

On the third day of Milah's bleeding, when she was feeling well enough to help clean the cannons, Ryan called down: "Everyone get ready, ship ahead!"

"Are you done?" Murphy asked her, and when she nodded, "Just in the nick of time, then. Get up on deck, I'll man this beauty."

Not knowing what else to do, Milah followed the crewmembers going for their weapons. All she had in that respect was the sword she'd been using for practice, and that was in Mason's possession. She headed for his cabin and met him on the way, the extra sword already tucked in under his arm.

"Oh, there you are," he said, tossing her the sword. "You coming along?"

"Wouldn't miss it," she said, because she might be untrained and sore, but this was her first pirate attack and she wasn't about to sit it out. "What do I do?"

"Stick with me," he said, "don't raise your sword until you're prepared to fight, and then fight like your life depends on it. Which it will."

He sounded so unperturbed about the idea that it had a calming influence, and she followed onto the deck, where those of the crew not manning the cannons were gathering up. Most of them were now wearing eyepatches similar to Mason's, giving them an eerie and rather threatening demeanour. Perhaps that was the point.

"Should I be wearing an eyepatch?" she asked.

"Not this round. You're staying on deck with me." When he saw that she didn't understand, he explained further: "They shift them over when they get below deck on the enemy ship. That way, one eye is prepared for the darkness and looting goes quicker."

That made sense, and it obviously wasn't an option for him. He seemed to take for granted that she'd stay with him, and she didn't mind – for her first fight, it was better not to be stuck in closed quarters without her teacher at hand.

The black flag had been hoisted, though as of yet no shots were fired. Milah licked her lips and looked around. There were Teynte and Starkey, both with eyepatches. Bilal went without, as did Ryan – and Killian, whose uncovered blue eye gave her a wink when he caught her gaze. The impending attack seemed to have him in a good mood, and she grinned back.

The other ship was trying to steer away, but the Jolly Roger was faster and quickly catching up. By now, she could spot not only the white sails, but also their flag with the red smudge that must be the Avalonian griffin.

The distance quickly closed, and the first cannon shots boomed from below. Mason stepped in front of Milah, which prevented her from seeing much of what was going on and made her feel like some dainty little thing in need of protection. A sharp comment was ready on her lips, until cannons boomed again and the Roger shook from the impact.

The crew seemed to take it as a natural thing, though Teynte dove back after a moment, face bleeding, and asked, "Can I have your kerchief?"

Mason grunted and took it off his head, handing it over to her.

"Are you all right?" Milah asked.

"Just some splinters from the gunwale."

"Throw an arm up next time," Mason adviced her. "Better some skin than an eye."

"Guess you ought to know." Teynte grinned and moved forward again, soon disappearing from view.

Milah didn't see how the ships hooked together, but she did follow the crew forward and was given a rope to swing over to the other deck. By now, her hands were sweaty enough that she had to wrap the rope an extra time around them to stay in place, but she did make it across, and drew her sword the second her hand was free again.

Once the close combat started, the nervous dread she'd felt disappeared. She had a job to do, and in order to perform properly, fears and other emotions would have to stand aside. Mason was on one side of her, Killian only a few yards away, and all around her the crew she had lived with for the past weeks. Their presence calmed her, though she could not spare much attention to what they were doing.

A midshipman had been pushed in front of her, and she attacked without bothering with any kind of pretense. She had a good two inches on him, and yet at first his parries were semi-relaxed, a smirk visible behind his scraggly beard, revealing that he did not think her a proper opponent. Well, his folly was not her problem, and she stuck to what she knew, no flourishes, straightforward moves, trying to find a weak spot.

As it dawned on the sailor that the danger was real, his muscles tensed and his attacks intensified. He drove her back a few feet, but even at his best, that was as far as he could take her.

She could _beat_ him. Refusing to let herself slacken with that knowledge, she pushed forward, forcing his retreat, and... dear gods, despite the pickle he was in, he still couldn't keep his eyes off her chest. Talk about a weak spot.

Using one of the tricks she'd learned, she twisted his sword away and was slightly surprised to see it clatter to the deck – though not nearly as surprised as he seemed to be, eyes wide and weak jaw hanging open.

She could have gone in for the kill, but hesitated for a moment. He hurried to throw his hands up. "I surrender!"

Even that, he said to her bosom rather than her face. His vague smirk that suggested he still couldn't seriously consider the threat to his life.

"No surrender," she said, raising her sword, only to have it blocked with a blade coming from her side.

"None of that. Put him with the others," Mason said, tutting her slightly before he let go.

Looking around her, she was surprised to see that while there were dead bodies on the deck, they were a lot fewer than she would have expected. The survivors were rather calmly being rounded up on the foredeck. In the pirate stories she'd been told as a child, the pirates would always either kill their enemies outright or make them walk the plank. Here, no plank was provided. Some of the pirates headed down below deck for looting, and a couple had climbed the masts and were slashing the sails, but the rest guarded the navy crew without much hostility.

Killian strode up to them and started speaking, chest out and head thrown back.

"I am Captain Jones of the Jolly Roger," he called, "and you, my friends, are in luck."

Half-consciously, Milah drew closer to see his face as he spoke. On her way, she had to move aside to avoid stepping on the corpse of a Navy man, eyes staring blindly over a throat that had been hacked almost all the way through. It should have been sickening, but she had seen so little of him in life, his dead body barely seemed real. Even mere minutes after death, the lack of life was as obvious as those people she had seen later in death, at funerals. Maybe a dead body was never quite real, and only the life remembered made it so. Still, it made her grateful that Mason had interrupted her attempted kill. Maybe next time, she'd feel more ready to deal with having pushed someone over that edge of reality.

Killian's eyes were sparkling like they had been when she first met him, but there was a layer of subdued anger to it, rising as his speech progressed.

"We will liberate you from the cargo meant for your corrupt king. If you wish, we will also liberate you from your service to him, and offer you a life on board the Jolly Roger, as one of us. You will get an equal share of all the spoils, including today's worth – so if there's a piece of cargo you've had your eye on, let me know and I'll see what I can do."

He looked up at the masts and grinned like a wolf. "If you do not wish... Well. Mend your sails and hope you can reach a shore before your rations run out."

Most of the sailors were scowling at him, a few looked scared – but she could tell which ones were considering it. When Killian finished speaking, one of them stepped forward, and so, after a brief moment, did the man next to him.

"New recruits?" he asked. "Excellent! What would your names be?"

"Scourie," said the first one, and the other replied, "Skylights."

Milah sighed at that. Two new faces with alliterative names, just as she'd started to learn the people already on board, and by the reaction of the pirate crew, this was standard procedure. She wondered if the crew ever got too big to be manageable – and then she saw the bloody gashes on some of the shirts, the makeshift bandages, and Teynte with her bloodied face, and she swallowed, figuring she had a pretty good idea of the answer.

A while later, when they returned to the Jolly Roger and left the loyal Navy men to their fate, Milah came close enough to Killian to ask, "Won't they just come after us when they've mended their sails?"

"They'll limp into Hikayesi or one of the other nearby ports in a few days," he replied. "We're heading straight for the main island of Basileia. Sure, if they don't spend too long licking their wounds we might bump into each other, but people don't tend to mess with the Roger twice. Especially not in a neutral area. We get into too much of a scuffle too close to shore, and they'll be thrown out for disturbing the peace just as quickly as we will, and with much further reaching diplomatic consequences." Looking her over, he frowned and asked, "Are you all right?"

Only then did she realize there was blood dripping down the inside of her leg.

"Oh, damn it," she said. "I must have dropped the cotton."

For a second he looked embarrassed, then he laughed. "Well," he said. "At least you're feeling better."

"I am," she said.

"And you handled yourself magnificently."

She knew that wasn't true – judging by the other men Mason had taken on, he had deliberately pushed a small and obnoxious one her way, to make her job easier. Still, it pleased her to know that Killian had watched, and she gave him a small but triumphant smile as she said, "Thank you."

* * *

><p>They sailed into Basileia by the end of the week, late enough at night that the city was just a dark outline against the horizon. The crew got off the ship and made it along the pier, which lurched under Milah's feet after her long weeks at sea, towards a little harbour tavern.<p>

The language was new, the people were new, and the salty milk she'd been served was definitely new. The taste, slightly minty, was easy to get used to, though. The most jarring difference was the way the locals were dressed, in clothes so colourful that she half believed herself in some palace, rather than a mere harbour inn. When a plate of meatballs was plunked down by a barmaid wearing _royal blue_, Milah had to quench the urge to get up and curtsey.

Yet she was starting to feel very much at home. The tavern was every bit as welcoming as the ones in Cockaigne, and much more so than the one she'd frequented in the Enchanted Forest. As for the pirates, they spread out around the table for the same jokes and games as usual. They called out sometimes in Atlantean to the people passing by, and she realized that Cecco seemed to be a native speaker, while Murphy too came close to that level of fluency.

Compared to the wonder of Glass Hill, on that first night Atlantis had a lull of familiarity, and she went back to the ship too sleepy to even look over her shoulder.

Her reaction when they returned ashore in the daytime was completely different, and she stopped midway on the gangplank, taking in the view.

"Could you move along?" Foggerty grumbled from behind, and she hurried forward, only allowing herself to stand still once she was on firm ground.

"Keep your jaw that far down, sister," Teynte said, coming up by her side, "and they'll take you for a hick and try to fleece you."

"I am a hick," Milah said, but she closed her mouth. "Is that the Temple of Wisdom?"

"It's the Temple of the Rising Sun," Teynte said. "Well worth a look too, if you ask me. But if it's Wisdom you want, it's over..." She grabbed Milah's shoulders and spun her a quarter of a circle to the right. "There."

Milah took in the tall spires, the golden glisten of the three rounded domes, and the sheer size, evident even from this far off. The black and white picture in Killian's book could not do it justice, much less her own sketched attempts.

"Could you..."

"Course," Teynte said and nudged her forward. "Come on!"

They ran up and down the cobbled streets, and ever so often Milah had to stop to look at a mosaic wall, or an amulet hanging from a window. Only the prize ahead prevented her from gawking at those things all day long.

Even at the magnificent gates of the temple itself, Teynte wouldn't let her stop, but pulled her through and pushed her into sitting position on a stone ledge by the wall.

"Look up," she said, and Milah obeyed.

She had seen elemental moving pictures before, small paintings sold by pedlars passing through the village. As magic went, it was fairly simple: paint made from minerals and water, hardened by fire, and made to move with gusts of wind, all aided by a spell. Any witch could do it, but never before had Milah seen an artwork on such a scale, or made with such evident artistry.

People, animals and creatures inbetween moved in a leisurely, flowing path across the ceiling, surrounded by winding vegetation that flowed like waves in a mild breeze. Most of the figures were unfamiliar to her, but she recognized owl-faced Wisdom in her armour, with the wide wings gently flapping to usher her companions along. Several of the others seemed to be gods and goddesses too, judging by the strange mix of features and the brightness used in their colours. Crowds of ordinary humans and animals appeared among them, as did solitary people who gave off a definite impression of having been painted from life - probably benefactors of the temple in some fashion.

Pipes along the crown of the walls blew out air at regular intervals, changing the pictures to make new figures appear and transform as old ones moved out into the sidelines or disappeared altogether.

"The Atlanteans consider this style of art old-fashioned," Teynte said. "Primitive, even. According to their line of thinking for the past few centuries, gods cannot be captured in mortal form, and so newer temples mostly have abstract decorations... but I guess even the Atlanteans think this is too pretty to get rid of."

"Pretty doesn't cover it," Milah said, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "All those layers, and every one as detailed as the finest portrait. It's not all naturalistic, either, the way a full-magic painting would be. There are distinctive styles in there, several, in fact. I don't think it was all done by the same person."

"Probably not," Teynte agreed. "Well, let me know when you're ready to see the rest of the city. Or the rest of the temple, for that matter." She chortled a little, then walked off.

Milah was vaguely aware that there were other details of artistry in the temple, but it seemed a frightful pity to take her eyes off the painting when someone had put so much work into it.

A woman in a glittering, high-collared black robe strode across the ceiling, flowers wilting in her path. She was clearly a version of Lady Frost, and Milah's eyes searched for the Florius, finding him seconds before the two met. His crown changed colours, then the leaves fell and swirled around them in their embrace, giving birth to Autumn. At home, she would be carven in wood, usually spruce or fir, with only the dress painted the colours of fallen leaves. This version, too, had swirling patterns in the skin, though the impression was of a different kind of wood, maybe walnut.

Since this was Wisdom's temple, Milah correctly guessed that the next scene would be the Judgement of the gods, where the couple were tried for throwing the year off balance. Wisdom, her wings spread out in a protective manner, endorsed their union with a benedicting nod of her head – as long, the story went, as balance was set right. Autumn had to share dominion with her new brother Spring, bursting forth in a rain of blossoms the artist had taken great care, and evident joy, to draw. Most of them were of no kind Milah recognised, either imaginary or local to Atlantis.

A familiar voice called her name, and added with a sad tone to it, "I wanted to be the one to show you this, you know."

"Killian!" she said, startled enough for the spell to be broken. There was a crick in her neck, and Teynte was nowhere in sight. "How did you know I was here?"

"It was a fairly safe bet," he said, his smile brittle as if he wasn't sure of his welcome.

She hurried to make room for him – he _had_ been the one to describe Atlantis to her – and his relief was evident.

"Though if my hunch had proven incorrect," he continued, more self-assure, "I would have tried to charm the ladies at the public bath next to learn if they had seen you. I know it's Teynte's favourite."

"Where is she?" Milah wondered, seeing no-one familiar in the dense crowd.

"Out in the temple yard, having a drink from the well. She said she'd told you."

Milah pondered that. There had been people moving and speaking all around her, she knew, but until Killian called her name, she hadn't paid any attention.

Killian grinned at her expression. "Take care," he joked, "people have been known to study this temple for twenty years. Didn't figure you for the meditative type."

There were a lot worse places to spend twenty years, as far as she was concerned. She asked, "I thought the Atlanteans found this primitive?"

"The theology, sure. Not the art."

She leaned back to watch again, and sighed, thinking of the much less skilfully made statues in the temples at home. "They must think us such louts."

"They can be arrogant bastards," he agreed. "Doesn't mean they're right."

He looked up too, and raised his arm slightly, as if to put it around her shoulders. Instantly, she tensed up, but he seemed to think better of it and settled both hands in his lap.

Battling the sense of relief and disappointment, she tried to take his attention elsewhere. "Who's the woman in the tower, with all the books?"

"Kütüphaneci."

"Kitty...?"

"Kütüphaneci. The librarian. According to official records, she was one of the patrons back when the temple was built. A most prosaic figure. In folklore, she grew to become something of a local saint."

The magic took on another layer from that tale, ordinary people taking their place right among the gods, and she followed the painted woman with even more interest.

"You know, we're only staying a week," he pointed out after a while. "You may want to see something else."

"Always just staying a week," she said. "I'm not going to rush through Atlantis just so I can say I've seen it all." But she did tear her gaze away from the ceiling once again. "I guess I should find Teynte."

They both stood up, and Milah stretched out her back a little. Killian, with a smile, fished out a small money purse from his satchel and offered it to her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Your salary. The reason I came."

'Reason' sounded more like 'pretext' coming from him, and she frowned. "I can't take it."

"You should. It's your share, same as everyone else's."

He held the purse out again, and she put her hands behind her back.

"I should be paying you, for taking me on board, and taking care of me."

"Bloody –" He bit down on the next word, mindful of his surroundings. "I was glad to do it, and you've earned your keep many times over."

After a moment's hesitation, se held her hand out for the purse, and once Killian gave it to her, she opened it, starting to count coins.

"All right," she said. "How much for the passage? And I've got to pay Starkey for the clothes, and Cook..."

"You're actually serious. Very well, but not in here."

Firmly, he led her into the templeyard and gestured for her to sit down next to him on the grass. She could see Teynte leaning against the well some distance off, following their actions with some interest.

He took the purse back momentarily and poured its contents out on the ground. Milah's eyes widened. Not even at her most comfortable had she ever owned that much money at once.

"Starkey's had some expenses, I'll allow," he said, setting a few silver coins aside. "As for that skirt, five coppers at the most."

"There's the lessons with Mason, too," she pointed out. "And Teynte for... everything."

"You don't put a price on friendship, love," he said.

His eyes implored her to leave it at that, but she pressed on.

"And how much for the passage?"

"Milah, _please_."

"If I weren't..." She set her jaw. "If I were just some harridan you took on for promise of payment, how much would you charge?"

He counted out six silver pieces, then, more reluctantly, four more, leaving an amount that came closer to the kind of money she could have earned in a good month.

When she'd been a child, there had been this stray dog by the schoolyard, a mangy thing with drooping tail and runny eyes. Once, one of the bigger boys in school had offered the dog a strip of bacon, and the animal had gratefully run over. Only, when it came close, the boy had eaten the bacon himself and taken off his belt to beat the dog, sending it running back to where it came from.

She couldn't remember what had happened to the dog afterwards, but she'd never forget that look of heartbroken bewilderment. Seeing it on a human being was even worse. Silently, she gathered the remaining money up in the purse, then leaned over and kissed Killian on the cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked, hope returning to his face.

"Because now we're even," she said. "A fresh start."

He smiled, one of those brilliant smiled she had missed so much since their falling-out.

"Pirate to pirate?" he asked.

"That's right," she said, returning his smile.

His eyes fixed on her mouth, and once again, she leaned over to kiss him, lightly, on the lips this time.

"Unbelieveable!" Teynte called out from her place by the well, just as the kiss ended. "Priorities, woman!" She trotted over, close enough that Milah could see every wrinkle of her nose, and added, "If you want to go moony-eyed over the captain, there's plenty of time to do that on the Roger. No need to waste time in Atlantis of all places."

"I feel that I've failed to teach you proper respect," Killian started, but Milah laughed.

"No, it's fine, I did promise," she said, standing up. "I'll come with you now. And I'll see _you_ later," she told Killian. "Unless you want to join us?"

"Sadly," he said with a grin that belied the word, "as much as I'd love to, I'm not allowed."

* * *

><p>Teynte took none too kindly to the suggestion that Milah owed her money.<p>

"If you're going to be crass, you can pay for your own bath," she said. "I meant to treat you to it, but there's no point, is there, if you're keeping tally on everything."

"Of course, I'd be glad to," Milah said, cheeks heating. "There's so much that you've helped me with, and I feel..."

Teynte made a polite comment about where Milah could shove her money, and it seemed wisest, after that, to let the matter drop.

The bath house was half full, but still restful compared to the streets and the temple. The light walls and sparse furnishing added to the contrast, and for Milah's overwhelmed mind, it was by now a welcome change. She paid her fee, was handed a towel, and followed Teynte into the changing room.

Previously, they'd always changed in their bunks, but Milah had taken enough swims with friends in her younger years to be comfortable around nakedness. Even so, as Teynte took off first her shirt, then the tight knitted chemise, Milah did a double take.

Underneath those baggy clothes, there were actual shapes, more generous ones than Milah had had at that age. She'd been thinking of Teynte as little more than a child, and she should have known better – after all, by sixten, she'd been as good as betrothed.

"It's through here," Teynte said, having shed the last of her clothes and replaced them with the towel.

Milah quickly finished undressing too and followed inside.

They sat down on a large marble platform in a steamy room, along with some other women wrapped in towels. All along the edge of the platform, naked women were being scrubbed and washed, yet the atmosphere was remarkably chaste.

At least, until it was their turn. Milah scooted gracelessly over to the leader of the washers, an older woman who gave her a brisk nod and got to work, making very little conversation since Milah couldn't understand it anyway. Throwing a glance over in Teynte's direction, Milah saw that her washer was of a different nature. Long, dark locks fell across a freckled face that leaned close to Teynte and whispered something in her ear, something that got the younger girl smiling in delight.

The leader saw it too and barked something that made the two put more of a distance between themselves. The Atlantean girl's face was flushed, though the steam might be to blame for that.

Not betrothed at sixteen, perhaps, but they seemed well on their way. Milah left them to their privacy and concentrated on the strange sensation of her own scrubbing. She hadn't been brushed down so thoroughly since she'd been a little girl, and the amount of grime on the brush showed how much she'd needed it.

By the time she was done, she'd been rinsed and soaked, and though she had the colour of a newborn pig, she felt more like a summer potato ready for the boiling pot. Teynte resembled most of all a glistening brown chestnut taken out of its thick hide – a hide she put back on as soon as they returned to the changing room.

"Is that chemise comfortable?" Milah asked dubiously, seeing those breasts disappear behind cloth again.

"Like you wouldn't believe." Teynte finished doing up the hooks and asked, "Well? Isn't this terrific?"

"It's nice," Milah said, and couldn't help teasing, "though I don't know what you like best the washing or the washer."

"They're strictly professional," Teynte said primly. "No dallying with the customers. Which is why I'll be meeting her tomorrow off-hours." She grinned. "So tomorrow you can fall in awe of the wonders of Basileia for as long as you want. Today, we've got to get you equipped."

* * *

><p>Equipped turned out to mean a new belt, a dagger to stick into it, a headscarf, and a wooden box "for whatever small items you don't want to lose," before they made their way to a seamstress.<p>

Milah's skirt was by now quite grubby, and the shirt nowhere near the pristine condition that Starkey had kept it in, even though she'd tried washing them both in seawater. Thus, it was a relief to be able to order two more shirts, another skirt, and... well, she balked a little about the pair of breeches.

"Are you sure about that?" she asked Teynte.

"Trust me, it's not just personal preference. You'll want them when you're climbing things, or in the winter... oh, which reminds me! A coat!"

Milah had always worn double skirts and long woollen stockings in the winter, but seeing how even with an overcast sky, this early Atlantean autumn was more like summer, she'd probably encounter winters that were different from what she was used to. The thought tickled her, and she folded to Teynte's expertise without further comment.

The shelves in the seamstress's room were filled with different kinds of cloth, and her eyes were drawn to a package of red silk interwoven with gold thread, which gave off a warm glint in the soft light. The seamstress, seeing Milah's interest, dashed forward and began showing off the material, placing it next to an off-white cotton and making gestures of how lovely they'd look together, as dress and petticoat.

"Oh, no, we're not buying that," Teynte said.

"No," Milah tried to explain, "We couldn't afford it. Too expensive."

"You wouldn't want it, anyway," Teynte said. "You'd tear it to pieces in no time, at our line of work."

"I know," she said, heart still yearning. "I can't. I'm sorry," she told the seamstress, and she meant it, too.

Teynte tried to comfort her on the way back. "The stitching was coarse and so was the fabric. If you want a silk dress, you can nab a length of silk next time we steal some. It's bound to happen sooner or later."

Milah agreed, though in her heart she couldn't forget the way the light fell on that particular material. If it had been true high-quality silk, it would have been easier to forget, because that remained out of her reach, but the money in her purse _could_ have bought her this cheaper imitation – if it had all belonged to her.

Thus it was with some yearning still that she returned to the _Roger_, but she decided to save the memory of that cloth in the same place of her mind as the temple, or the mosaic walls – precious things to see, but not to own. With that decision made, she went to repay her debtors.

Starkey took the money with no comment, though he politely declined the return of his shirt and belt, which was understandable, in their current condition.

Cook, whose lended skirt was now in such a state Milah didn't even want to offer it back, took the five coppers with an amused snort. It was a petty sum compared to their share of the loot, but Milah still felt better, having given it.

Mason flat-out refused, with less heat than Teynte but much the same kind of stubbornness.

"Didn't do nothing for you that I wouldn't do for anyone who asked," he said. "Better if a pirate knows how to fight."

While she couldn't argue with the second half of that statement, she suspected the first half was a lie – but she couldn't prove it, not since the only two people who'd come on board after her were already navy crew. Still, she pressed the issue:

"I feel obliged to you, for the lessons, and everything else. I'd feel better if there was something I could do for you."

He scrunched up his eye against the sun and thought about that. "You could show me where you bought that box," he said.

"The box?"

"The little one. If you remember."

"No, I remember," she said. The stall had been close enough to the bath house that she believed she could find her way back. It seemed such a small and peculiar request, though, that she asked, "Is that all?"

"Yuh. Would make a nice gift for the missus."

For a moment, she just stood staring at him, until words found her lips. "You're _married_!?"

"Yuh. Got three lads, too."

So many questions tumbled through her head, and she grabbed one of them as it passed by. "Do you miss them?"

"Course. But I got them a little farm in Tir na n'Og, and we go there a few times a year, so I get to see them then."

The way his voice softened was endearing, yet she felt a pang of envy in her heart. He could be gone most of the year and stride right back into his family's life like nothing happened. No one would think worse of him for it. If she had tried an arrangement of that sort...

"Well, I think it's lovely," she said, with bright and fake sunniness. "And of course I'll show you where to buy a box. Or I can help you find something nicer, if you'd rather."

"Can't really waste money on something much nicer."

"Nicer isn't necessarily more expensive." But a thought struck her, and she calculated the amount of money left in her purse. Not enough for a dress, but maybe enough for the fabric – especially if she had someone to haggle on her behalf. "Tell you what. I've got my eye on a little something. If you help me get a good price, you'll get all the money that's left over. Deal?"

He guffawed, and stretched a hand out. "Deal."


End file.
